


The Queen of Hearts

by BlueCichlid, Sarah_Black



Series: An Inconvenient King [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon divergence post season six, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Letters, Long, Lots of plot, Mutilation, Past Rape/Non-con, Plot, Resurrection, Sibling UST, Slow Burn, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Violence, canon-tv
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-11-10 01:57:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 34,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11117487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueCichlid/pseuds/BlueCichlid, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarah_Black/pseuds/Sarah_Black
Summary: Sansa Stark has married Stannis Baratheon. The white walkers have been defeated. But Cersei still sits on the Iron Throne and the peace Sansa desires is far from her grasp. This is the sequel to An Inconvenient King.





	1. To Serve The King

**Author's Note:**

> This is the sequel to An Inconvenient King. We are anticipating that it will be the second in a trilogy.
> 
> As always, please take the warnings seriously. There is some stuff in the first chapter, in particular, that may be an issue for some people. We won't necessarily warn on a chapter by chapter basis for everything, but if anyone would like more information to know what to avoid, feel free to let us know.
> 
> We anticipate posting twice a week, but that is subject to change. Blue and Sarah live in completely different time zones, so writing and editing while they're both awake can be a challenge.

_Sacred fucking oath._

Sandor glared at the door to Stannis’ solar. 

_Swore an oath my ass. Swore it to a boy-king who couldn’t find his cock if a girl was sucking on it. And a good thing too. Little shit._

He heaved a sigh.

_Obey the King. Do his bidding. Keep his secrets._

He had done that, for a time. Said not a word when Joffrey tortured and killed innocents. Stood in his white cloak and watched the little bird on her knees at the point of a crossbow, tears running down her cheeks.

_Defend the King. Your life for his._

That was where he had failed. Fucked off out of King’s Landing, washed his hands of the whole mess. Let Joffrey die choking at his own wedding. Kid had been a little monster, but … well, it had all fallen apart for the Lannisters after that, hadn’t it? The fucking Imp had been a shit, too, in his own way, but cunning, and when they turned on him it was all over for them. The Old Man dead on the shitter, men said. Cersei, mad, Lancel, madder, Kevan as useless as ever, and Jaime-fucking-asswipe-Lannister an embarrassment to guarding. After the Blackwater, the Lannisters were doomed. 

Tommen and Myrcella hadn’t stood a chance.

And Sandor wasn’t sure he had been wrong to walk away. 

He glared at the door. There were voices on the other side. Stannis was meeting with someone. Sandor could walk away now.

 _But I promised the little bird_ , he told himself, just as the door opened. 

“It’s been a pleasure,” Baelish said, walking out of the king’s solar with a gleam in his eye that told Sandor that he’d managed to get something he wanted.

Stannis was following Baelish, but it did not seem to be doing it as a courtesy. Judging by the glower on the king’s face it looked like Stannis was just ushering Baelish out the door. Making certain that he’d _leave._

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Stannis said, confirming Sandor’s suspicions. “You’ve got what you want. Now go.”

Sandor wondered what Baelish had managed to convince Stannis to give him, but kept his face blank and uninterested. The two men had not failed to notice him - he was a hard man to miss - but they were both ignoring him so far. He wanted to keep it that way for as long as possible. They’d be more likely to let information slip while they were focused on each other.

He’d overheard a lot of things over the years. It was easy for people to forget guards were there.

“Indeed, I believe I have a few letters to write. And I assume you’ll want me to alert your Hand to the new situation?”

“Gloat if you must,” Stannis muttered, rubbing his stubble with a hand and shooting Baelish a fresh glare. “Just do it _elsewhere._ ”

“I think I will enjoy being master of law,” Baelish said, smirking and lingering rather obnoxiously in the corridor.

Stannis met Sandor’s eyes. It was clear to Sandor that at the present moment, the king considered him to be the lesser of two evils.

“Clegane. A word if you please. You understand, Lord Baelish.” The courtesies were clipped and insincere, but Sandor and Littlefinger played along. Sandor headed into the solar, and Baelish bowed his head and finally seemed to remember how to move his feet.

There was a long silence inside the solar. Particles of dust hovered in a beam of winter sun that shone through the grimy window.

Stannis walked towards his desk and frowned down at a map of King’s Landing. “Did you want something?” he eventually asked, his voice low and tired.

“Yes,” Sandor said, crossing his arms when Stannis looked up with sharp eyes. “My old position back.”

They stared at each other, and Sandor made sure not to so much as blink.

“You wish to be knighted?” Stannis asked, looking down at the map again. He touched Blackwater Bay and scowled.

“No. I want to be a Kingsguard again.”

“Members of the Kingsguard have always been knights.”

“Not me.” He shifted. _I need to try. I promised her._ “But I’m a good guard. The best you’ll find.” 

Stannis whirled around and walked up to him, crossing his arms to mirror his position. Stannis was a tall man, but he was still forced to look up to Sandor. Sandor made the most of his height and _loomed._

Stannis did not seem even a little intimidated, which Sandor grudgingly respected.

“You abandoned your post once before. Why should I expect you to show me any more loyalty?” Stannis asked. His voice was more tired than accusatory.

“Would you have shown Joffrey loyalty?” Sandor scoffed. “If you had been in my boots, if you knew _you_ were coming, would you have stayed?”

Stannis’ face hardened. Not that it had been soft before. “You swore an oath.”

 _Yes, yes. Sacred fucking oath._ “Joffrey was never a true king,” Sandor said, taking a step closer to Stannis. If not for the difference in their heights, they’d be nose to nose.

Stannis didn’t back away. “You mean to say that you are prepared to be loyal to your rightful king?”

“ _Yes._ ”

There was a very long, very tense silence. Sandor made a point of breathing evenly, and tried to force his heart to beat evenly, too.

 _Say yes, damn you._ Sandor would find a way to help Sansa even if Stannis said no, but this was the simplest way. The _right_ way.

“Tell me what this is really about,” Stannis said at length, glaring up at him.

“I want to be a Kingsguard,” Sandor ground out. Of course this was about the little bird, too, but… Sandor swallowed and pushed all thoughts of Sansa aside. With Stannis looking at him like that, he could not afford to betray anything.

“A White Sword takes no wife and fathers no children. And I do not tolerate whoremongering,” Stannis said, searching Sandor’s face closely. “I’d expect you to uphold your vows.”

_I’d expect you to keep your hands off my wife._

Sandor heard the unspoken words as clearly as if Stannis had shouted them in his ear. 

He bared his teeth for a moment, and felt very tempted to imply that he’d keep his hands to himself, but he’d make no promises regarding _Sansa’s_ hands. If the little bird ever felt neglected… but no. She was Queen now. Lost to him forever. Not that there had ever really been a chance. Only a fool’s hope. 

“I understand,” Sandor ground out. _I cannot have her, but I can be what she saw in me. I can be true to that._

“Are you prepared to pay for the crime of abandoning your post?” Stannis suddenly asked, taking a quick series of steps back over to the desk. He rolled up the map of King’s Landing and unfurled another one. It showed the stormlands.

“I dragged your frozen arse to Winterfell, and I’ve kept you from getting killed again,” Sandor muttered. “Isn’t that enough?”

Stannis glared. “Answer the question.”

Sandor suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. “What sort of payment?”

Stannis was silent for a moment. He stared down at the map. “Lord Davos lost the tips of his fingers. That was for smuggling. For abandoning your post, when you were sworn to defend Joffrey, king or no …” Stannis’ eyes flitted briefly to Sandor’s hand. “... An entire finger seems appropriate.”

 _You want a finger? I can give you a finger…_ Sandor clenched his teeth, but said nothing.

“As you only betrayed _Joffrey,_ I’d say an unimportant finger. Not on your sword hand.”

“You want my little finger?” Sandor asked with a sneer. “Fine.” He stalked over to desk and placed the palm of his left hand on the map. It covered Storm’s End and Shipbreaker Bay. “Take it. But do it your own damn self.”

Stannis’ nostrils flared for a moment, but a second later he was moving. Summoning a servant. _Asking for a cleaver._

Sandor forced himself to keep breathing evenly. He ignored the drops of sweat running down the back of his neck.

The long, _long_ wait before the cleaver came down was harder than what came after.

Stannis’ eyes were cold and resolute, but for a second Sandor thought he saw a glimmer of respect, too. There was a thunk, and the cleaver went through the map and sank into the wood of the table. Shipbreaker Bay turned red. Stannis’ hand never wavered.

Stannis had a steward from the Night’s Watch tend to the stump, and Sandor barely paid attention to the man as he applied pressure to stem the bloodflow. But when the fool made to cauterise the wound he gained Sandor’s full, undivided attention.

“No,” he said, pulling away. His heart was racing and sweat springing up all over his body. _Not more fucking fire._ The dragons were bad enough. That clearing where he had found Stannis had been bad enough.

Stannis raised a brow when the steward looked to the King for instructions.

Sandor would not beg for mercy, but he looked Stannis steadily in the eyes, clenching his jaw and _daring_ the bloody man to push him.

The silence stretched on as Stannis seemed to consider the matter, and sweat poured down Sandor’s back uncomfortably.

“Use boiled wine,” Stannis said at length, inclining his head slightly.

The steward grunted and finished tending to the wound with boiled wine and clean bandages. It hurt, but Sandor didn’t make a single sound. Relief worked almost as well as milk of the poppy to dull the pain.

“I will have a white cloak delivered to your chambers,” Stannis said when the steward was gone.

They stared at each other, both refusing to blink.

In the end, Sandor nodded, turned around, and walked out the door.

_Sacred fucking oath._

He left the finger on Stannis’ desk.


	2. A Queen Sails South

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is being posted a bit later than Blue and Sarah planned. Blue had a big job interview this week and Sarah's been up to her elbows in IKEA shopping and the inevitable assembly required. But here it is now! Enjoy. :)

The wind whipped Sansa’s dress around her ankles and the salt spray stung her face. She found her eyes drawn to the Fury, Stannis’ flagship, the boat that was going to take them to Dragonstone. 

_Ship,_ she mentally corrected herself. _It is a ship, not a boat._ Stannis would correct her if she got it wrong. 

Stannis Baratheon. King of the Southern Kingdoms … and her husband. King in name, but a king without a kingdom, and her a Queen without jewels, courtiers, a keep, or even a safe place to sleep at night. 

And her new husband was a man that was near a stranger to her. And what she knew of him gave her no peace of mind. He was rude, abrupt, quick to judge and slow to forgive, intolerant of the smallest of foibles. If that was all, it would be daunting enough. But there were darker deeds in his past. 

_He burned his daughter at the stake. His first wife hung herself out of grief. He killed his brother with a shadow of magic._

Sansa pulled her cloak tight around herself, but the cold wind cut through every gap in the fabric. 

_But there is good in him, too. I have heard him speak of his regret. He risked his life and his claim to defend the Wall._

_He has tried to be gentle with me._

She closed her eyes and shivered, but it was not due to the cold. If anything, she felt unusually hot as she remembered his touch on her skin, his kisses, his body working on top of her own...

Blinking, Sansa pushed those thoughts away. Everything to do with her husband was so horribly complicated. She did not know what to think of him, of his past, of their future … if they had a future. 

She did not want to think about any of it, but she had to. She had made her choice, and now she had to see things through to the end.

_I must do my part to establish peace in the realm._

Still, the thought of going back south - back to the lands Cersei ruled - brought Sansa no joy. If she could be certain that Stannis would defeat the Lannister queen, perhaps she would feel better, but there was no certainty. Only the fear that he might fail.

_Cersei hates me. She thinks I helped murder Joffrey. What will happen to me if we fail? How do I go back to that cursed place?_

Her breath hitched in her throat at the images that filled her mind. Joffrey’s eyes had been full of fear when the strangler had taken him.

More images came, flooding forth relentlessly. 

_Her father’s head on a spike. The Hound murdering her would-be rapers. Lysa. The Moon Door. Theon watching and doing nothing as Ramsey pushed her down on the bed. A bloody battlefield strewn with corpses. Jon covered in dirt, viscera, and grime: punching her tormentor over and over and over. Ramsay’s face as he realised what manner of death she had condemned him to. The bright hope in Daenerys’ Targayren’s eyes as Sansa sent her off to her death._

This was not the life she had wanted. Tears prickled at her eyelids as she inhaled deeply. The cold air stung her lungs. She had not wanted any of this. All she had ever wanted was for things to be beautiful and perfect and safe -- like they were in the songs.

 _Life is not a song,_ Petyr’s voice said in her memory, and Sansa let the deep breath she had taken back out. Slowly. No tears fell from her eyes.

 _What will Petyr do next?_ she wondered. _He is on the small council again… what does he intend to do with the position?_ Petyr would need to stay close, in any case, and it would serve his interests to help Stannis secure the throne. To help _her._ He was not a danger to Stannis yet.

 _And I won’t let him become one,_ Sansa promised herself. _Sandor will help me._

Stannis had already reinstated her only true ally in the Game as a member of the Kingsguard. _But at a price,_ Sansa reminded herself, a flash of anger passing through her. _Is this my husband’s idea of justice?_ She had not learned of what happened until they were on the road from Castle Black to Eastwatch, and she had not dared confront her husband with people about. 

She wasn’t sure she dared confront him at all, and a shiver ran through her at the thought. 

_Brave, I must be brave._

She had spoken only briefly to Sandor, and had left that conversation more perplexed and furious than she had started. Why had Stannis done it? Because Sandor had deserted his post. But it was unjust! But he did desert the fucking post, didn’t he, little bird? Didn’t he need his finger? He had nine more. Didn’t it hurt? Yeah, some. 

Sansa had stormed away.

Seeing him now, tall at Stannis’ side, his white cloak blowing back in the wind, you’d never have thought him injured. He’d clouted Tormund on the shoulder -- albeit with his right hand -- when the Wildling had said his goodbyes (Tormund had also asked his friend to keep an eye out and send word if there was any news of Brienne). 

The captain of the Fury was calling out orders, and there was a general movement in the direction of the ship.

Sansa’s heart started beating faster as she looked at the crowd that had gathered to see them off. Jon was squinting his eyes against the wind, and there was a dampness on his cheeks that she did not think was just the spray. _Sandor is not my only true ally,_ she thought, struggling to keep her own face dry of tears. Jon didn’t know as much as Sandor, but he would support her no matter what. Sansa knew that as well as she knew her own name.

Their eyes met and he walked towards her, just as he had that day at Castle Black, and paused, just as he had then. 

“It won’t be long now,” he said. “You’ll be off on that ship, and I don’t know when I’ll see you again.”

She forced herself to smile, but her eyes were tearing up despite her efforts. “I’ll be alright. You take care of all of them. Take care of the North.”

He gave her that half-smile, and she felt her heart skip a beat. “And you take care of the Realm.” He looked down. “If I’m King, it is because you made me one. You saved the North from the Boltons. Without you, I would have … I don’t even know what I would have done. You gave me a purpose again when I didn’t even know if I wanted to live. This peace we have, you gave it to us, more than anyone else. Now you have to do it all over again, in the South.” He took a breath that was nearly a sob. “It isn’t fair.”

“I’m not alone,” she said. “I have Stannis, and Davos, and Tyrion.” _And Sandor and Petyr,_ she thought, but did not utter the words. 

“If you need me, ever, for anything, anything at all …”

Sansa nodded, and wrapped her arms around Jon’s neck. He was quick to accept the embrace, tightening his arms around her in return. 

“Sansa?” Laoren, Sansa’s maid, said. “I think they are ready.” Her voice was sympathetic.

Sansa felt the pressure of Jon’s hug release. 

She stepped back, brushing the tears from her eyes. 

She managed a smile of thanks for Laoren, who was leaving her home just as much as Sansa was. She knew the girl was frightened. _She’s never lived anywhere but White Harbour and Winterfell. As her Lady and her Queen, I must set a good example. I must not only be brave, I must be seen to be brave._

But she found her eyes drawn back to Jon’s face. 

“I wish I could go with you,” he said, his voice rough.

That moment in Castle Black came back to her like it was yesterday. _Where will you go?_ She had asked him, and he had replied, without hesitation, _where will **we** go?_

And now she was leaving Jon behind.

And then she was back in his arms again, her face buried in his furs. She buried her face in the crook of his neck, inhaling his comforting smell. Smoke, leather, horse, metal. The musky scent of wolf and the smoky tang of dragon. 

She knew she should let go, turn back to the ship, but she couldn’t release him. As if reading her mind, his arms tightened around her as if he could never let her go. 

“Queen Sansa?” Lord Seaworth’s voice was awkward.

They broke apart. 

Davos looked from one to the other, and his face was dubious. But all he said was, “we are ready to board, Your Grace.”

“Thank you,” Sansa said, though she looked away from Davos as soon as she saw that he was retreating. 

“I don’t know what to say,” Jon said, his voice hoarse and full of emotion. “I -”

“I will miss you,” Sansa said, resisting the impulse to hug him again. “So much.”

Jon searched her eyes for a moment, and she felt as if he were seeing straight into her heart.

A choked sound that might have been a sob or a growl - or neither - escaped Jon’s throat, and he pulled her to his chest, knocking the air out of her for a moment. He crushed her to him, and she wound her arms around his neck, squeezing him in return. She did not care about breathing. She closed her eyes and focused on remembering what it felt like to feel this comfort and this bittersweet pain, and vowed that she would not let too much time pass before she and Jon were reunited. It was cruel that they should be parted, but Jon had to stay in the north with his dragon and make sure the white walkers did not come back. A choked sound of her own left her throat, more a whimper than anything else, and Jon loosened his grip. It was not what she wanted, but her lungs thanked him. He kissed her forehead, his lips lingering a little longer than propriety dictated, but Sansa didn’t care. She kissed one of his cheeks in return, stroking the other with her bare hand. His beard felt soft.

Tearing herself away made her heart ache. “Farewell, Jon.”

Jon looked up, blinking rapidly. His eyes were shining when he looked at her again. “Farewell, Sansa.”

He left after that, walking quickly and keeping his face averted. Sansa wished she was alone so that she could give into the need to shed her own tears. Instead she forced herself to take a deep, shuddering breath.

A movement caught her attention, and she turned her head. Her husband was looking at her with his jaw clenched, his hands curled into fists, and his brows heavy. His eyes were burning. Davos stood beside him, looking concerned.

Sansa swallowed and made herself smile. She placed one foot in front of the other, and once she had reached Stannis, she tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. His back was ramrod straight, and tension was coming off him in waves.

“Shall we go?” she asked, making her voice soft.

He nodded, not looking at her. 

Together, they walked up the gangway to the ship that would take them south.


	3. At Sea

Sansa was no sailor. This much was clear to Stannis from the moment the Fury set sail. 

They were making good time running before a northerly wind, but the seas were choppy. Sudden squalls made the ship lurch like Robert returning from a whorehouse. Nothing to a sailor, but poor conditions for a woman not used to the sea. Every time Stannis caught sight of his wife, she looked green. He could not help but think there was some justice in that.

It had been two days since they had set sail. Two days since his wife had clung to another man in front of some of his most important vassals, all thought of propriety seemingly forgotten.

The woman was wilful. Arrogant, even. He had seen that when they first met. Perhaps it was understandable at the time, but now ... Did she not understand that there were proprieties? Expectations? She could do as she pleased when she was Lady of Winterfell, but now she was Stannis’ wife and his queen, and her behaviour reflected on him. He’d hoped she would show more consideration for his feelings.

 _Jon is her brother,_ he reminded himself, his blood heating as he recalled the embarrassing scene. _She is young. And she has suffered much these last years. I must not hold one lapse against her._

They had barely spoken a word to each other since the journey began. Stannis had been avoiding Sansa in the day, and only going to their cabin when he knew she was asleep. He had been rising early, too. Though that created its own set of problems, as he was not entirely comfortable around Sandor Clegane. And he was ignoring Davos, too, who had told Stannis that he should not dwell on the scene at the docks, and that although it had raised eyebrows, everyone understood it had been an emotional parting for the Queen.

On a relatively small ship, this all required no little effort on Stannis’ part. 

But now… now Sansa really looked quite bad.

“Sit down, Lady Sansa,” he ended up telling her as he passed her by. She was clinging to the railing, looking down into the rolling waves. “If you insist on remaining up on deck you must sit down and try not to get in the crew’s way.”

She looked up at him, her face framed by a mass of wind-whipped auburn hair, her blue eyes huge. Stannis was stuck again by her beauty. Even ill, she looked like something out of a song. The sort of woman any man would desire.

 _And this is my wife,_ he thought. It was incomprehensible, perplexing … even a bit frightening. 

“I do understand that, Your Grace,” Sansa said, quietly. “It’s just - it’s just that I think the fresh air helps me feel less ill.”

Despite his irritation, he felt a sudden urge to make her feel better, comfort her, and perhaps even touch her. He clenched his jaw and told himself to stop being absurd.

“Look at the horizon, my lady,” he muttered, giving her the only advice he could think of that might help her. “Pick a point that’s far away in the distance and do not take your eyes off it.”

She blinked at him, a surprised look on her face. “Will that help?”

He shrugged and made a noncommittal noise. It might help her. It might not.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” she said.

“Stannis,” he muttered, his face warming. “You may call me Stannis when we are speaking privately.” 

She gave him a long searching look that made him feel like she could see through his skin somehow. His stomach jumped like a fish out of a stream. 

The ghost of a smile crossed her pallid face. It looked like a strain … but at least she had tried. That meant something, didn’t it?

“Thank you, Stannis. You may call me Sansa.”

He cleared his throat and nodded. He did not trust himself to speak, even though he very much wanted to try calling her by just her given name. She held his gaze for a heartbeat before turning to look towards the horizon like he had instructed. 

He should walk away, he knew that, but he found himself lingering, looking at her profile. 

_Does she understand the danger we are sailing into?_ Likely she did; his young wife was no fool. The Lannisters were entrenched in mighty strongholds, their armies relatively undamaged. 

What support did he have? Tyrion Lannister and the Greyjoy siblings were not in control of their homelands in the Westerlands and the Iron Islands. Dorne and the Reach were unpredictable, the riverlands too damaged to be of much account. The stormlands -- his heart skipped a beat at the thought -- but no, the stormlands were unsecured. And Stannis was not sure of the extent to which he could depend on many of the forces he had inherited from Daenerys.

He had only two allies openly sworn to support his claim and in uncontested control of their regions: Jon Snow and Petyr Baelish. It had rankled to put Baelish on the small council, but without the support of the Vale, Stannis’s cause was lost before it began. Appeasing the man’s vanity was a small price to pay against that. 

_Have I been foolish, bringing my queen south with me? I could have left her safe at Winterfell and sent for her when my position was more secure. But I need an heir to secure my alliances, and if I am to get an heir upon her, I must keep her close._

_My throne … the throne that is mine by rights and by duty … depends on this marriage._ He found himself tensing at the thought. He took a calming breath, bringing the salt air into his lungs, clearing his mind. _It is not her fault. We are stuck with each other, she and I, just as Selyse and I once were. That was not so ill, for all the challenges we faced. At least, not before the end. We found a way._

 _But a kingdom’s hopes didn’t rest on my first marriage._ He looked at the profile of his beautiful young queen, and wondered what the future held.

***

Sansa wasn’t sure to pleased or displeased when Stannis came to their shared cabin early enough to find her abed but still awake on the fifth night of the journey south.

It had been nice when he had spoken to her kindly, taught her to look at the horizon, and given her leave to use his first name. She liked it when he showed her that side of himself. But as much as she would like to encourage him to show her more of his gentler nature she was also still angry with him for taking Sandor’s finger. She knew she would be ill at ease in Stannis’ company until they discussed the matter.

She only hoped it would be better when they had talked.

Was now the time?

“Are you well?” Stannis asked, catching her looking at him.

She was sitting in bed, her back supported by a few feather pillows she had piled up. She bowed her head for a moment and examined the pattern along the hem of her blanket. “As well as I ever manage to feel aboard a bo- ship.”

Stannis grunted and started to strip his sword belt off. Sansa felt herself face become warm. Would he want to claim his rights as a husband? She was wearing a modest nightgown and the bed’s blankets were tucked around her, concealing most of her form from view. To be honest with herself, this was no accident. She knew her duty, and he had not been unkind in bedding her, but … but ...

 _I have a good reason to deny him,_ she reminded herself. Her courses had come yesterday and she was still bleeding. The additional discomfort of stomach cramps on top of her incessant nausea was bringing her no joy. 

It wasn’t just the physical discomfort that was bothering her, however. Guilt plagued her heart. Her first reaction upon discovering her bloody smallclothes had been _relief._ She had been _glad_ that she wasn’t pregnant. Petyr’s plan made her dread the idea of bearing Stannis an heir. But she was a wife and a queen besides. It was her duty to give her husband - the _realm_ \- an heir. Her failure nagged at her as much as it relieved her. Robb had been conceived right after Mother and Father had been wed, and a part of Sansa had been hoping she would be able to prove her worth just as quickly as her mother had. 

She had always been so enormously thankful when Ramsay’s seed hadn’t quickened in her months of captivity, but now the fact that it never had seemed ominous.

_What if I’m barren?_

Petyr would tell her to be patient, she knew. Petyr would reassure her that everything was well. Part of her longed for that comfort. But he had his own agenda, and she could not trust him when it came to these matters. 

Petyr’s clever eyes flashed in her memory, always watching her. Always plotting. _He wants to speak to me. Plot with me._ She couldn’t give him what he wanted. And yet … _at least he wants me for more than what is between my legs._

“Why did you do it?” she asked, needing to take her mind off blood and heirs and Petyr. And she had to ask this question. Now was as good a time as any.

“Do what?” Stannis’ voice was muffled. He was in the middle of pulling his doublet off over his head instead of unbuttoning it properly.

“Take Sandor Clegane’s finger.”

Stannis’ hair was mussed when he emerged and his expression irritated. Sansa averted her eyes. The shirt had come off along with Stannis’ doublet, and his chest was bare.

“He wished to be a Kingsguard and I required him to pay for the crime of deserting his post during the Battle of Blackwater. ”

“He would have served you loyally regardless,” Sansa said, crossing her arms.

Stannis blinked. “He would have, I believe. But I have no use for a man who cannot take responsibility for his acts and face justice. He asked me to carry out the sentence myself.” He paused. “Davos did that, too.” There was a thoughtful note in his voice and he stood still and silent for a moment, staring into the middle distance. When he moved again it was to sit on the edge of the bed and remove his boots. Sansa was mesmerised for a breath or two by the way his muscles flexed as he bent and tugged the boots off. The cabin was dimly lit, but Stannis’ pale form was easily visible.

“Is that why you trust Davos?” Sansa said, furrowing her brow and looking at the blankets again rather than at her husband.

“It’s why he earned my respect. My trust he has earned over the years through true and devoted service.”

“Do you respect Sandor?”

Stannis’ body stiffened. Sansa wasn’t looking at him, but she could feel him growing rigid. “Why do you care? What is he to you? Truly?” The questions were sharp and suspicious.

“I’ve told you before,” Sansa said, trying to keep her voice measured, “he has protected me in the past. Protected me when no one else would.”

“It is my duty to protect you now, Sansa,” Stannis said, rising from the edge of the bed and looking down at her with a fierce expression. “Not your half brother’s, not the Hound’s. _Mine._ ”

Sansa wondered whether he was still talking about duty. Hearing him say her name made her skin prickle oddly.

“Of course, Stannis,” she said, meeting his eyes for a moment before looking away. There was a pause that felt tense and almost… expectant. But Sansa was not in the mood to guess what Stannis was expecting of her. “I’m tired,” she said, turning to push most of the pillows behind her away. She got on her back and closed her eyes.

For a long time she heard nothing, but eventually the rustle of fabric reached her ears. She supposed Stannis was removing his breeches and donning his night shirt. 

Her body tensed. 

She felt the mattress shift as he crawled into bed next to her. He blew out the lamp, and then lay still. 

“Goodnight, Sansa,” he said. 

“Goodnight, Stannis.”

And with that she found herself drifting off to sleep.

***

_Dear Bran;_

_It is done. I have seen our sister wedded, bedded, crowned, and sent south on a ship with Stannis Baratheon._

_I left the docks and got drunk._

_Now I write to you with a pounding head and a heavy heart._

_Do you know that I never expected to see Sansa again? When we all left Winterfell - when you were sleeping after your fall and Father was still alive - I thought I might see Arya again, but never Sansa. She was so happy to be going south. She was betrothed to the crown prince. I hated him, you know. When I first saw him. I hated the way he looked down on us all. And he didn’t look at Sansa like she deserved to be looked at. Like she’ll always deserve to be looked at. Like a princess._

_Anyway, I thought Arya might come back north. I could imagine her sneaking off to the Wall to show me how she learnt to fight with a sword. She would have had a merry time with the free folk, don’t you think? Tormund would have tried to give her fermented goat’s milk, I can just see it. I miss her so much._

_It’s so strange that it was Sansa who came instead. I love them both -- I’ve always loved them both, but Arya was always more like a sister. What I feel for Sansa is… different. Maybe because she’s older? I don’t know. I just want to wrap her in my arms and never let go. She smells like home._

_But if she goes south, if my fierce little sister is there, somewhere … then Sansa going is my best hope of getting Arya back. But … is there anything Sansa can do to help Arya, even if she is alive?_

_Gods, Bran, I shouldn’t have let Sansa leave. Do you think it’s too late? Should I write her a letter and ask her to come back? Should I fly after her?_

_Her place isn’t in the South. It’s here, in the North, with me._

_Your brother, Jon._

***

_Jon;_

 _What in the Seven Hells and the Roots of a Dead Weirwood???_

_By no means should you get drunk and write any letters to Sansa. BY NO MEANS._

_Stop. Do nothing. Come see me in Winterfell. We need to talk._

_Idiot._

_Bran._

***

_Greetings to Our Most Wise and Puissant Vassal Euron Greyjoy, Lord of the Iron Islands;_

_Reports have reached our ears that an imposter who names himself Stannis Baratheon has wed the traitor Sansa Stark, sister to the King in the North, and sails south to challenge our rule. His forces are depleted by the battles at the Wall, but still a threat. Our spies tell us that Yara Greyjoy has paid oaths of homage and fealty to him, and he has promised her dominion over the Iron Islands._

_I believe we have common enemies. If you agree, we welcome your reply. You will not find us ungrateful._

_Cersei of House Lannister, First of her Name, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm_


	4. The Night of the Storm

“I’m going to be sick,” Sansa moaned. She was curled up on the bed in their cabin, hugging her knees to her chest.

The storm had come upon them as they sailed through the Bite and they had been unable to reach a safe harbour in the Sisters. There was nothing to do but sail through it. Stannis was putting on a brave face before his bride, but this was the type of weather that ships were lost in. He could only hope that the rest of the fleet was safe.

He knew that there was a life and death struggle on the deck above them. As an experienced sailor, he could help. The presence of the King would be no more than a distraction, though. He would not have men risk themselves to safeguard him; a storm like this was no time for posturing. He trusted that the Captain and Davos had matters well in hand. They were two of the finest seamen he had ever known. If anyone could get them through this storm, it was them.

But all this left him in the cabin with his Queen.

“Shall I call for your maid to attend to you?” Stannis asked, sitting by his writing desk and staring at Sansa’s pale face. There was no hope of writing anything, not with the ship pitching in all four quadrants plus up and down. It was all Stannis could do to keep himself in the chair -- and that chair was bolted to the floor. But pretending to write was the only thing he could even have the pretence of being busy with.

“Laoren is ill too,” Sansa said. “She threw up on herself an hour ago. There’s nothing she would be able to do, and I don’t want to have to smell her. It would only make me sick myself.”

“Are you really going to be sick?” Stannis hoped she wouldn’t. “Do you need a bucket?”

“I have a bucket. Please don’t talk about it,” Sansa moaned, “talking about it makes it worse.”

“What about a cup of water?” At least that would give her something to throw up if she needed to. 

After a moment, Sansa nodded weakly, and indicated that a cup of water would be nice. 

Stannis moved easily across the heaving boards. Most of the landsmen were below deck and much the worse for wear. He had to step over Sandor Clegane’s massive legs. From the looks of things, the Hound was no more a sailor than the Queen. Stannis was not entirely sure the man wasn’t dead. But he could only worry about one seasick person at a time. 

“Where are you off to?” the Hound suddenly said, opening his eyes to give Stannis a searching look. “Going up on deck, were you?”

_Not dead after all,_ Stannis thought, examining Clegane’s countenance more closely. Had the man just been sleeping? “My wife is ailing,” Stannis said, taking a step back when Clegane suddenly got to his feet. “I’m searching for a cup of water.”

“I’m about to go up,” Clegane said. “Looks to me that the Captain might need every able man he’s got.” There was an implied challenge.

Stannis gritted his teeth. In similar circumstances, he would by no means have let Robert go above decks and risk himself or distract the sailors. But for himself, and with the Hound looking on … it rankled. He watched Clegane stagger up the steps.

_It should be me. I am as good a man as any. Is a king worth more than a good sailor in a storm?_

_But my duty is to remain here._

Stannis stood still for longer than necessary after Clegane was out of sight, frowning at the steps.

_Water._

After some thought, he remembered he had seen a barrel in the galley and headed there. 

As he recalled, there was a barrel of water and a stack of cups. His errand was interrupted by the appearance of Lord Baelish, who was immaculate, cheerful, and impeccably dressed. Apparently, Stannis was cheerfully informed, the man was feeling peckish. Littlefinger proceeded to fix himself a snack of a cup of milk, some fruit, and selection of cakes, all the time chattering about politics in King's’ Landing as if they were not in the midst of a storm that could send them to a watery grave. 

“Is this really the time?” Stannis bit out, cutting Baelish off in the midst of a sentence about Jaime Lannister’s military acumen. (His view was that the Kingslayer had excellent training but was impetuous … a defect in one commanding armies.)

Baelish raised a brow. “Do you have somewhere to be, Your Grace?” He glanced around at their surroundings, lips curling into a smirk.

Stannis tried to resist the urge to grind his teeth. He failed, and Littlefinger’s lips curled further.

“As a matter of fact, I promised the Queen to return to her without delay.” It wasn’t quite the truth. Stannis had made no such promise. But when one was fetching something for a seasick person, haste was generally appreciated. Stannis mostly told the half-truth to shut Baelish up, and perhaps there was a small part of him that wanted his master of law to remember that Sansa was Stannis’ wife now. _Mine, not yours._

Baelish’s mood did not sour at the reminder. His eyes actually seemed to brighten for a moment before his face took on a neutral, placid expression. “Indeed. You must be anxious to do so. Ladies do so love to be comforted during storms,” Baelish said, popping a grape into his mouth.

Stannis stared at Baelish. _Did the infernal man just wink at me?_ Blood rose to his face as he realised what Baelish was implying.

_That’s not going to happen,_ Stannis told himself firmly. _Sansa is ill._ And why would Baelish want another man - even the King -- even the woman’s husband -- to have what he so clearly desired for himself?

Baelish popped another grape into his mouth, amusement clear in his eyes.

“Get out,” Stannis said, regaining his composure. 

“Your Grace, I’m merely trying to eat -”

“Go to your cabin or I’m sure the Captain will be happy to put you to work up on deck.”

Baelish sighed, drained his cup of milk, and left with his plate of cakes and fruit. He moved as gracefully as a cat over the pitching boards.

Stannis glared at the door as it closed behind Baelish.

_Water,_ he then reminded himself again, clenching his jaw.

Sansa appeared to be asleep when Stannis returned, but opened her eyes as soon as he closed the door behind him. She watched him as he crossed over to her, placing the water into her hands and sitting himself down on the edge as she drained the cup.

There was a long, awkward pause while neither one of them spoke. The storm raged outside and the ship creaked loudly. Sansa twitched whenever there was a particularly ominous noise.

_Ladies do so love to be comforted during storms._

Loath as Stannis was to accept advice from Littlefinger, it _did_ look as if Sansa could use a distraction.

He took a deep breath and searched his mind for an appropriate topic of conversation. It was harder than he expected. His mind kept returning to that day in Storm’s End, standing besides Robert on the parapets, watching the _Windproud_ sink. But he did not want to talk about that, and he doubted such a subject would be of any comfort to Sansa.

“Renly used to get seasick,” he said at length, wondering what to do with his hands.

“Really?” Sansa was looking at him interest in her eyes. Strands of hair were clinging to her clammy forehead and neck, and Stannis had the sudden urge to brush them away for her.

“Yes,” he said, keeping his hands to himself. “When he was a boy. He grew out of it, I think.” He frowned down at his lap. He wasn’t actually sure whether his younger brother had ever properly grown out of it. They hadn’t seen very much of each other after the siege. Stannis had been busy running Dragonstone, doing his job as master of ships, and also helping Jon Arryn perform the duties Robert should have been attending to himself.

And the idea of visiting Storm’s End as his younger brother’s _guest_ had rankled.

“Do you miss him?” Sansa asked, her tone gentle.

Stannis closed his eyes and tried to ignore the dull ache inside his chest. He didn’t really want to talk about his feelings regarding Renly. There was not much to be gained from discussing the matter.

Something about the way Sansa was looking at him made him want to give her an honest answer regardless.

“I miss the boy I knew,” he admitted. “The man he became was a stranger to me.”

Sansa reached for one of his hands and covered it with hers. He looked at her smaller, more delicate fingers against his own.

“I’m sorry -” she began.

The ship lurched and creaked more ominously than ever. Sansa stopped mid-sentence and squeezed her eyes shut, a small whimper escaping her.

“The Fury has withstood much worse,” Stannis said, wishing to reassure her. “You’re safe.”

_I think._

“Could you lie down with me?” Sansa asked, somehow making her eyes look very big.

Stannis glanced at his writing desk. The blank pieces of paper that had rested atop it before he had left to fetch Sansa her water were all on the floor. Even if he tried to deny Sansa and pretend to write a letter, he doubted she would be fooled. He might as well try to get some sleep.

He felt Sansa’s eyes on his back as he disrobed, and was - not for the first time - reminded of the way it had felt to strip down on their wedding night. He had felt her watching him then, too. It had made his heart pound furiously. Now that he had disrobed in front of her a few times since they had set sail a few days ago, he was able to stay more calm.

It helped that he knew he was not about to… comfort her. They had not lain together as husband and wife since their wedding night, and Stannis knew that would not change. Sansa was ill.

Wearing nothing but a long nightshirt and his smallclothes, Stannis put out the lights and groped his way towards the bed in the pitch-black darkness.

The bed was just large enough for them both to lie down on their backs side by side, and as it was situated next to a wall, Stannis was required to climb over Sansa to get to his side. Ordinarily, he would have insisted on sleeping further from the wall, but as Sansa might be sick, she needed to be close to the bucket on the floor. He was just thankful that there was a railing to keep them both from being dumped on the floor as the ship lurched.

Stannis managed to make it to his side of the bed without too much trouble, though Sansa moved her leg at an unfortunate moment and nearly kneed him hard in the groin. _The Baratheon dynasty nearly ended there and then,_ he could not help but think. Thankfully, she just bumped into his thigh instead. He had just made himself tolerably comfortable on his back when Sansa spoke.

“Could you hold me?” she asked, her voice small. “I think it would help.”

Stannis was surprised by the request, but as it did not cost him anything to turn to his side and wrap an arm around his ailing wife, he did it. He had not intending to hold her too close, but the ship heaved and threw her up against him. 

She was very hot to the touch, though not quite feverish, and her skin was sticky with perspiration. Stannis hardly noticed this, however, as she was very soft, and her body fit perfectly against his. 

It was rather too arousing.

He shifted his lower half so that his groin wouldn’t be pressed against Sansa’s rump quite so distractingly, and once he finally found a position that would be comfortable and braced him against the rocking of the ship, he stopped moving around, closed his eyes, and tried to go to sleep.

It didn’t work. Stannis felt very wide awake. It didn’t help that Sansa was constantly being jostled up against him.

“Could you tell me something?” Sansa whispered.

“Something?” _Like what?_

“Anything.”

Stannis’ mind went completely blank. It was as if he had never seen or done anything worth talking about. Or anything at all, in his entire life. Ever.

“What’s the first thing you’ll do when we get to Dragonstone?” she asked, obviously taking pity on him. Her voice was weak as she spoke, and her breathing was not quite as easy as it should be.

Relieved that she had given him a subject, he cleared his throat and tried to collect his thoughts. “Well,” he said, thinking it over, “if the island is well protected by Targaryen loyalists, there might be a small battle. I hope it won’t come to that, however.”

“You don’t think you’d win?” Sansa murmured.

“I’d win.” He had lived on that miserable spit of land for more than a decade, and he knew the island much better than any garrison Daenerys Targaryen could have left there. “But I do not wish to spill any more blood than necessary. And there is no reason to expect hostilities.” 

Daenerys had taken the island almost incidentally, on the way to landing her forces in the south-west. _Sentiment_ , he thought, his lip curling. Although perhaps he was being harsh. The island was an excellent strategic position with its deep harbour and strong keep. Which was why they were sailing for it now.

“What will you do once you have taken command of the castle?”

Stannis considered the question for a moment before answering. “Once my position on Dragonstone is secure and I have sufficient forces, I will plan the attack on the mainland. Perhaps I will move on King’s Landing first, although it might be wise to establish a stronghold elsewhere before attacking the capital.” 

The image of Storm’s End crossed his mind. 

_Yes, it might be wise to move south first._

He forced himself to think of the longer term. There would be so much work to do. First he needed to get rid of the Pretender and take the Red Keep, and then he needed to rebuild the kingdoms under his rule. It would not be easy. Stannis would be a decrepit old man by the time the crown would be out of debt and his lands and his people recovered from war.

_But if I had a son, a strong son to take my place, then I would be content._

“If you win… if you take King’s Landing… will you rebuild the Great Sept of Baelor?”

Stannis scoffed. “There will be more important things to do.”

“The common people will need paid work. Building something will give them something to do and put food on their tables.”

Stannis hummed. He understood her point, but Sansa did not know how much he already owed the Iron Bank.

“You could ask Tyrion pay for it. His sister is the one who burnt the Great Sept down. She has incurred a debt, and Lannisters always pay their debts. It would also benefit House Lannister to be seen as showing remorse.” Sansa spoke slowly, and her voice was still quite weak, but she was obviously not too ill to be sensible. She was giving him sound advice.

“I will consider it,” Stannis said, not wishing to commit to the idea before he had defeated the Pretender.

The Fury hit a particularly large wave. For a moment they were both thrown into the air. They hit the featherbed hard. There was more ominous creaking. 

Sansa failed to stifle a frightened noise. Stannis instinctively tightened his hold on her, bringing her into yet more contact with him. He had not been this close to her since their wedding night. Despite the fact that it was entirely inappropriate in the circumstances, and despite the fact that he should probably be fearing for the souls aboard the ship and thinking of _practical matters,_ arousal began to course through him in earnest. He loosened his grip and tried to create more space between them. This drew a noise of complaint.

“Hold me properly,” Sansa instructed, somehow managing to sound both completely reasonable and as imperious as the queen she was. 

“Pardon me, Your Grace,” he muttered, feeling both eager and reluctant to comply with her command.

He was able to hold her with the front of his body flush against the back of hers for an entire minute before he started to feel aroused again, but when he tried to shift his groin away from her, Sansa protested.

“Stay still,” she said, her voice weak. “Please. I - I like the way this feels.”

Stannis grunted and stopped trying to move away. He started to think about how cold his feet had sometimes been at the Wall, and the pain of feeling the heat return to them after battle. This line of thought bought him at least ten additional minutes. Meanwhile, the storm seemed to become a little less violent, and the ship’s movements became gentler. 

Stannis sighed in relief that the worst of it seemed to be behind them. They would make it through the night.

He shifted around when his cock started to harden despite his best efforts, trying to turn his body a little without actually moving away.

Sansa didn’t say anything.

He stopped trying to shift around and listened to the sound of her breathing. It had become much more deep and even than it had been before. 

_Is she asleep?_

Stannis held his breath and listened for a while longer, trying to block out the sound of the ocean and the wind.

“Sansa?” he whispered.

No response.

“Are you awake?” he tried again, hoping that she wouldn’t answer him.

When she didn’t answer - to his immense relief - he let the tension drain from his body with a long, drawn out exhalation. He felt slightly guilty for enjoying that fact that she was asleep and would not be able to feel his inappropriate reaction to her, but as it was saving him a great deal of embarrassment, he really couldn’t help it.

For a long time he was able to simply keep still and enjoy the feeling of having her soft, womanly body pressed so intimately against him, but eventually the pressure of his arousal started to demand that it be dealt with.

Sansa moved in her sleep. 

It felt _wonderful._

His guilt intensifying, he moved a little himself, enjoying the bit of friction that he managed to create a lot more than he should.

_She’s asleep. This isn’t right,_ a voice he usually listened to admonished.

_I won’t do anything more than this,_ another voice argued, _this won’t hurt her._

A low groan escaped him as he started to rub himself against her a little more rhythmically, and he buried his nose in her hair, inhaling deeply.

_By the gods, even when she is sweaty and seasick she smells good._

“Stannis?”

Stannis froze. His heart started beating frantically and his face started to burn.

“What are you doing?” Sansa’s voice sounded sleepy and confused.

“Nothing,” he rasped.

Sansa moved a little, drew in a sharp breath, and then became very still. “Do you - do you wish to take me?” Sansa’s voice was very small.

Stannis felt too awkward to speak right away, and the question hung unanswered in the air above them.

_I do wish to take you,_ he thought, feeling ashamed of himself. “I’m not going to,” he eventually said, speaking more harshly than he had planned. He got on his back, taking the evidence of his desire out of contact with Sansa.

To his immense surprise, Sansa turned around to lie on her other side, pressing her front to him. “Thank you,” she whispered. She pressed her lips to his cheek for a brief moment, and cuddled up to him quite intimately.

His stomach seemed to fill with rocks, dampening his arousal considerably. Being thanked for being decent enough not to enforce his rights as a husband was not making him comfortable. His wife was in no fit state to contend with his lust, and she thought to thank him for not disregarding this fact?

He couldn’t think what to say, so he kept silent. After a few minutes he could tell that Sansa had gone back to sleep where she lay curled against his side.

Stannis remained awake for a long time, feeling the ship move this way and that and listening to the wind howl. As he was on his back, and no longer in contact with Sansa where he was… sensitive to stimulation, he eventually stopped feeling aroused entirely.

His thoughts did not stray very far from the subject of marital matters, however. He thought about what he could do to earn Sansa’s trust and put her at ease, and wondered if she would always be wary of him and expect him to molest her if she let her guard down.

He didn’t know.

His sleep was not very restful that night.


	5. Dragonstone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note from Blue: I just wanted to thank everyone who wished me luck on the interview -- I got the job. Exciting but scary times for me! Thanks so much to everyone for your positive thoughts. :)

Sansa’s first impression of Dragonstone was not favorable. 

The docks where they disembarked were sheltered by a rocky promontory which formed a natural harbour, but even so the sea was choppy and the the wind was cold. Tiny floating stones that she was told were called ‘pumice’ covered the surface of the water. The tiny beach was all pebbles and black sand under the snow. There was a bleak little town jammed in between that beach and a cliff-face, but few inhabitants were to be seen and none looked much pleased to see them. Everything stunk of fish. The castle, which was accessible by a narrow winding path, seemed to loom over them all. Above it was the black peak of the Dragonmount, smoke rising from its summit. 

She could understand how Stannis had not been pleased when King Robert had given Dragonstone to him, and Storm’s End to Renly. 

“Greyjoy banners,” Stannis muttered as he saw the representatives waiting for them by the docks. He sounded disgusted.

_Theon._

Sansa held back while Stannis gave his orders and dispatched his men. They had ample forces with five full ships escorting the Fury, though one of the ships was listing on the port side after the storm. Her husband seemed to anticipate no trouble, but when he named the men who were to come with him to the castle, she stepped forward. 

“Am I not to accompany you, Your Grace?”

Stannis stared at he. He seemed almost startled, but was quick to hide his surprise with a scowl. “You will be safer aboard the ship.”

Sansa disliked the idea of being left out of this meeting. She tried to think of an argument that might persuade Stannis to let disembark with him. “I might be of some assistance,” she said, meeting his eyes when he glowered at her. “I know Theon Greyjoy well.”

Stannis did not appear convinced. Petyr hovered in the background, observing the exchange.

“Taking me along would send a clear message,” Sansa said, trying a different tack.

Stannis furrowed his brow. “What?”

“It will send a twofold message,” Sansa said, glancing at Petyr. He gave a small smirk and a nod. “Firstly, by taking me with you, you will be declaring that you do not intend to cross blades with the Greyjoy representatives.” She paused. Stannis made an impatient noise and Sansa hurried to continue. “Secondly, it will imply that you do not believe yourself to be in any danger of being overpowered. It will show how confident you are.”

“I am not Jaime Lannister. I am not known for being overconfident,” Stannis said, his customary scowl in place. “Not when it is prudent to proceed with caution.”

“You have every reason to be confident, Your Grace,” Sansa said. “It will not harm your cause to show the Greyjoy party that you do not fear them.”

Stannis pursed his lips. “How well do you know Theon Greyjoy?”

“We were raised in the same household. He helped me escape Ramsay. He’d be disposed to treat me kindly.”

Stannis looked at the Greyjoy banners for a moment, seemingly thinking it over. “Fine,” he said at last. “You may join us. But be sure not to get in the way.” He turned away, like the matter was of no importance. 

“Well done, sweetling,” Petyr said to her softly. “You are learning to… manage... him.” 

Sansa felt a rush of anger as she looked at her husband’s back, listened to him give orders for horses to be brought. It wasn’t fair. She shouldn’t have to learn to _manage_ him.

_A year ago, I was the Lady of Winterfell and you a penniless beggar, Stannis Baratheon._

Theon received Stannis and Sansa in the Chamber of the Painted Table with a wan smile. 

“Welcome to Dragonstone, my lord,” he said. He barely spared Petyr, Davos, Sandor and the rest of the guards a glance when they walked in. His eyes were fixed on her.

Sansa met his gaze. She wished she dared to embrace him as they had done when they had been escaping Ramsay together. There was a part of her that would never forgive him completely for his past betrayal, but for all he had done he was still _Theon._

Sansa had so many memories of Robb, Jon, and Theon learning to fight, stealing cakes from the kitchens, laughing and running and joking together… For all that he was part of some of her darkest times, the sight of him could still bring back good memories too. She was grateful for that. She refused to let the other memories come to the fore. They would not have that power over her.

“We are not your lord and lady, we are your king and queen,” Stannis said, narrowing his eyes at Theon.

“King?” Theon glanced at Sansa, visibly shaken. “And … queen?” 

She nodded. It seemed like so long since her wedding, but in truth it had only been a few short weeks. 

“What happened to Daenerys?” Theon asked, blinking at them both in turn, and then looking nervously at his guards. His voice lowered, and there was a sudden note of fear. “What happened to Yara?”

“Daenerys Targaryen is dead,” Stannis declared, his voice echoing in the large chamber. “I am your king, and I would have you bend the knee as your sister did.”

Sansa heard Sandor and their other guards shifting around in their armour, no doubt making themselves ready to fight if the need arose. She hoped there would be no need. Petyr caught her eye for a moment. He looked mildly entertained. Thankfully there were no apples within reach.

“Daenerys died heroically in battle, fighting as King Stannis’ ally,” Sansa said, forcing herself to ignore Petyr. “She was mourned by all of us, and her memory will live on in song. But Yara’s alive,” she continued. “She’s safe and well, and King Stannis has sworn to make her Lady of the Iron Islands.”

“I have,” Stannis confirmed, sounding as if he were running out of patience. “Your sister is both well and as impudent as ever. Unless she has perished at sea,” he added, as if the matter was an afterthought. “I sailed ahead with my guard and what remains of the force Lord Baelish led north from the Vale, but Lady Yara, Lord Tyrion, and what remains of the Targaryen army - my army now - will arrive in the south soon enough.”

Petyr nodded, his expression becoming solemn for a moment.

Theon looked from Stannis to Petyr, and then to Sansa. Sansa tried to give him another pointed look, but he didn’t seem to really see her. His eyes were a little glazed, and his hands were shaking.

“Are you refusing to kneel to your king?” Stannis asked through gritted teeth.

Theon seemed to snap back to his senses, and suddenly he was on the floor, kneeling with his head bowed.

“Dragonstone is yours, my King.”

Stannis looked a little less irritated at this, but his face still betrayed impatience as he gestured for Theon to get up.

Sansa remembered being on the receiving end of that little hand gesture the first time she had knelt for him. She had been quite pleased when he hadn’t tried it again at the Wall, but she had to admit that seeing him gesture like that at someone else made her stomach clench up oddly. There was an effortless authority to the movement that seemed… regal.

Stannis was so often pedantic, dour and _irritated_ , and so seldom inclined to behave the way a great lord should, that sometimes it was difficult to remember that his veins was the blood of the Storm Kings of old. 

“What happened to the Florents and the men I left here?” Stannis asked.

“Daenerys sent them to Brightwater once they bent the knee,” Theon said, staring at the floor.

“No casualties?”

“A few knights. A few guards. The rest yielded readily once they saw the dragons.”

Stannis nodded and Sansa could see his jaw working.

Theon glanced at Sansa. She met his eyes, and they stared at each other in silence.

“What happened in Winterfell?” Theon whispered, still staring at her. She knew that he was asking about the Boltons. About Ramsay.

“Ramsay is dead,” she said, going over to Theon and placing a hand on his shoulder. “I fed him to his hounds.” She was silent for a few beats to let her words sink in. “He died screaming.”

Theon drew in a shuddering breath and searched her eyes in desperation, obviously not quite daring to believe her. She didn’t blink. A strange feeling of pleasure and horror passed through her like a shudder, but she held his gaze.

When Theon exhaled and squeezed his eyes shut, his entire body seemed to slump with relief. There were tears in his eyes when he opened them again.

“Thank you,” he said. “ _Thank you._ ”

Sansa wrapped her arms around him. He had hugged her in the woods when she had desperately needed to be embraced, and now she would return the favour.

He shook in her arms: terribly thin, and somehow more fragile than ever before.

By the time Theon took a step back from her, however, Sansa could tell that he had managed to pull himself together. He was standing up a bit straighter, and looking a lot less like he had collapsed in on himself. He was a very far cry from the Theon of her youth, but he at least he wasn’t _Reek._

“We have a lot to discuss,” Stannis said, bringing Sansa’s attention back to him. He looked impatient, but not dangerously so. Davos seemed discomfited, but Petyr still looked as if he were reading a mildly entertaining book.

“Of course,” she said, walking over to her husband and tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow. He glanced at her, but bent his arm to accommodate her readily enough. 

Somewhere behind her, Sandor’s armour creaked a little ominously.

Stannis cleared his throat and looked at Theon. “What news from King’s Landing?” From his tone, he clearly didn’t expect much.

But Theon straightened at the practical question, his voice suddenly stronger. 

“Well, Cersei Lannister sits the Iron Throne, as you no doubt know. The small folk hate her for her destruction of the Great Sept of Baelor, but they fear her too much to revolt. The Kingslayer and the Lannister army keep the peace, but it is the wildfire everyone truly fears. There are… disturbing rumours about her new Kingsguard, but thus far nothing that I can confirm as more than that.” Theon took a breath, and continued. “King’s Landing is well protected from an assault by sea. The Lannisters do not have many ships, but what they have are deployed near the city, and the city itself is well protected from a water attack. From land, there are more possibilities. Their armies are scattered, trying to hold too much territory, and many of the lords are ready to rebel against them, given leadership. We had hoped that Queen Daenerys might be that leader, but … well. The situation is ripe for another leader to come along.”

Stannis nodded, an expression of reluctant respect on his face. Theon might be injured and uncertain, Sansa thought with pride, but he had clearly worked to gather intelligence and consider the situation.

“I expected that the representative of House Martell and Olenna Tyrell would be here.” Stannis looked about as if expecting to see them. “Where are they? And Varys? Where is he?”

“Ellaria, Olenna, and Varys are in Storm’s End,” Theon said, “and Ellaria’s daughters, of course.”

“Oberyn Martell’s bastards?” Stannis asked, his voice sharp. Something in his face had tightened at the mention of Storm’s End. “I thought Ellaria Sand and her daughters were responsible for murdering Doran Martell?”

“Yes.” Theon wasn’t meeting Stannis’ eyes.

“And yet those honourless murderers are in positions of power? Still? Absurd,” Stannis said, pacing around and scrubbing his face with his hands.

Theon shrugged a little helplessly. It was a common reaction for people confronted with Stannis Baratheon in a mood. “All I know is that the Dornish army answered to Ellaria.”

Stannis walked over to the the painted table and touched it for a brief moment. Sansa wasn’t entirely sure that he noticed that he even did it. It was a part of the map that was south of King’s Landing. She didn’t have to walk closer to know that it was where Storm’s End was located. Davos followed Stannis with his eyes, but stayed still and silent.

“My sources also confirmed that before we left Eastwatch,” Petyr piped up. “The conspirators who killed Doran and his heir were a small group, but with no others of Martell blood left, Dorne is following Ellaria. In uncertain times, people look to leaders who project strength. The Dornish lords will mostly likely turn on her in a year or so but they will not risk a war between themselves now. Not with the rest of Westeros in chaos.”

“Perfect,” Stannis muttered, not sounding as if he thought it was perfect at all.

“You don’t think she’ll bend the knee?” Sansa asked, watching as the crease between Stannis’ eyebrows got deeper.

“The Martells of Dorne have never been my allies. Their whores and bastards are unlikely to like me any better, nor would I take fealty from pretenders.” Stannis was scowling now. “And you know my history with the Tyrells.” Stannis looked at Davos for a moment, and the two men shared a heavy silence between them.

Bitterness was something Sansa had seen in Stannis’ eyes before on many occasions, but never quite like _this._ There was something raw and injured about the look. _The siege,_ Sansa realised. _The memories still pain him._ She had heard tell of the horrors of starvation that the defenders had faced, and of the Tyrell lords feasting in sight of the walls. Stannis had been barely older than she was now when he led the defence of his childhood home. She remembered when he had awoken in her care in Winterfell, how haunted he had looked when he had spoken of the lows hunger could drive a man to.

 _He has unfinished business in Storm’s End._

“They all acknowledged Robert as their king,” Sansa said. “You are Robert’s rightful, _lawful_ heir.”

“The Tyrells tried to put Renly on the throne, and the Martells have been murdered by Prince Oberyn’s whore. I doubt she will care about the law.”

Stannis and Sansa stared at each other, and Sansa could tell that Stannis was starting to mentally prepare himself for one more battle.

 _He isn’t thinking objectively,_ Sansa thought, frowning. _His emotions are clouding his judgment._ She could understand his feelings, but still, she worried. 

Her eyes met Petyr’s. 

“What happened to the dragons?” Theon asked, drawing everyone’s attention towards him. 

“Drogon was killed with Daenerys in battle, Tyrion Lannister has one, and my brother Jon the other,” Sansa said, unable to resist smiling. Theon had grown up with Jon just as she had. He would be able to understand how wonderful it was that Jon, _their Jon,_ was a dragonrider. “He is King in the North and he can ride Rhaegal. Just like Daenerys could ride Drogon.”

Theon’s eyes widened.

“King Jon is King Stannis’ ally,” Davos added, speaking up for the first time. “He would be willing to aid Stannis in battle. And Lord Lannister has bent the knee. He could be called upon, too.”

After swallowing a few times, and blinking quite a lot, Theon nodded. “Olenna and Ellaria might bend the knee if you told them this,” he said, glancing at Stannis. “They know what those dragons are capable of.”

Stannis nodded. “I will send a raven and inform them, then,” he said. He did not seem entirely convinced that a raven would be enough, but Sansa was fairly sure he was not quite as resigned to the idea of war as he had seemed a few moments ago.

She walked up to her husband touched his elbow gently. “I’m sure they will see reason,” she said.

“Letters have never done me much good in the past,” Stannis muttered.

Sansa kept her face blank. She had received enough letters from her husband to understand why that had been the case.

“I don’t know Ellaria very well,” Sansa admitted, “but I think Olenna Tyrell and Varys are logical people. They will not want unnecessary bloodshed.”

“The old crone,” Theon said, “Olenna Tyrell,” he amended when Sansa gave him a reproving look. “She’s very angry about losing Loras and Margaery. She talked about the future of her house.”

“They’ve hardly _all_ been wiped out like the Martells?” Stannis asked, sounding irritated.

“Nearly,” Theon said. “there are only a few cousins left. The oldest, Elinor Tyrell, is Sansa’s age. She was betrothed to Alyn Ambrose, but he died in the Great Sept.”

“Elinor Tyrell is the rightful heir to Highgarden?” Stannis asked, raising an eyebrow. “Her claim is indisputable?”

Theon nodded. 

“That makes things easier. Do you know anything of the girl?” Stannis asked, looking at Sansa and Petyr.

“I think I remember her,” Sansa said, furrowing her brow. “She was one of Margaery’s ladies-in-waiting. I never really spoke to her much, but she was very pretty, and quick to smile.” _But the Tyrells are always quick to smile, and in the end it means nothing._

“I can’t say I know much more,” Petyr admitted, looking displeased. “She was never anyone of importance before. I shall write a few letters and see what intelligence may be gathered.”

Sansa gave him a sidelong look. _Does Petyr know more than he is saying? Will he use the opportunity to advance plans I know nothing of?_ She mentally shook her head. Perhaps Petyr genuinely knew nothing and planned to make inquiries. Surely not everything he did advanced his schemes.

It was exhausting worrying about what he was doing. 

She glanced at Sandor, wondering what he thought Petyr might be up to. Sandor met her eyes for half a breath before focusing his attention on Stannis. Sansa wished she could read thoughts; Sandor’s expression gave nothing away.

“She will have to wed someone suitable and produce an heir,” Stannis said flatly.

“Do you have anyone in mind, Your Grace?” Sansa asked, feeling a pang of sympathy for Elinor.

“It will have to be a lord’s son. A second or a third son of a lesser house -- not the heir to a title in his own right. It will have to be someone who’ll be willing to take up the Tyrell name,” Stannis said with a sigh. He was rubbing his forehead and clenching his jaw.

“Perhaps Lady Olenna has someone in mind for her?” Sansa suggested. “Even if she doesn’t, I’m sure she would appreciate being included in the decision.” _And Elinor would probably appreciate the same courtesy._

“Of course she would,” Stannis said, his tone sour.

“You could use that to your advantage,” Sansa pointed out, touching Stannis’ elbow again, lingering a little longer this time. He looked at her hand with his eyes narrowed in suspicion, but some of the tension in his shoulders seemed to drain away regardless. “You could promise to make certain that House Tyrell will have a future while you sit on the Iron Throne.”

Stannis scowled.

“If the remaining Tyrells swear fealty to you, of course,” Sansa hurried to add.

“Olenna will probably want to be on your small council,” Theon said. “Tyrion had promised to make her master of coin.”

Petyr raised a brow.

“And I suppose Ellaria was to be master of law?” Stannis asked with a snort. 

Sansa’s lips twitched. It would be very… creative… to appoint a woman who murdered her way to power as master of law. Then again, appointing Petyr as master of law was fairly creative, too.

Theon looked down at his hands. “Master of ships, actually,” he mumbled. “Missandei was to be master of law, and Grey Worm the Lord Commander of the Queensguard.”

“And who was to be the Grand Maester?”

“I think Daenerys intended to send for someone new from the Citadel.”

“What? Did she not have some Dothraki witch in mind for the post? Astounding.”

Sansa could tell that Theon was not amused. She walked over to Theon and gave him an encouraging smile. “Do you know if she already sent for a maester? Is he on his way here?”

“I - I don’t know.”

“We’ll find out soon enough,” Stannis said irritably. “For now there is much to do. We must make sure the castle is well-garrisoned and secure. I want the Queen to be safe here while we battle on the mainland.” 

_Safe,_ Sansa thought, her stomach contracting. She could not really imagine feeling safe now that she was back in the south again. And for all the strength of Dragonstone, how could any castle of mere stone and mortar keep her safe if it all went wrong?

She looked at Sandor again, and he gave her the tiniest of nods. She gave a tiny nod back and took a deep breath.

_Everything will be different this time. I’ll make sure of it._


	6. The Lady of the Castle

This was not the first time Sansa had assumed occupancy of a newly-taken castle, but Winterfell had been familiar from store rooms to glass gardens, from saddlery to ramparts. Dragonstone was not. She barely knew which way to turn if she stepped out of the Chamber of the Painted Table. But she knew that she needed to show a strong front to the people of the castle. She was their Lady now, as well as their Queen.

To her complete lack of surprise, her husband was no help. Stannis announced his intention to supervise the unloading of his troops from the ships and was gone in the next breath, taking Sandor, Theon, and Petyr with him. He seemed to assume that Sansa knew what to do to begin the process of establishing herself at Dragonstone. 

It was, she thought, an example she must follow. She dispatched Laoren with instructions to find and bring to her the steward, if there was one, the head cook, the head groom, any lady’s maids that might remain, the falconer, the accountant, the head groomsman or woman, the keeper of the still room, the brewer, and anyone else who seemed of any importance. Immediately. 

Three hours later, having completed a tour of the castle with her new entourage, she retreated to the Lady’s solar with a cup of tea made precisely to her liking (she had politely rejected the first two cups the nervous cook had offered) and the account books of Dragonstone.

There had in fact been no steward. Daenerys had taken Dragonstone early, but had resided there only briefly before turning her attention to the west. Theon, from what Sansa had gleaned, had done what he could, but had been spread thin with defensive planning and gathering intelligence, and had little time for the routine business of running the castle. It was a set of priorities she approved of, but it was clear that the keep had been sorely neglected. 

As she settled into her chair, she could not help but think of her lady mother. Catelyn had been younger than Sansa was now when she arrived at Winterfell, Robb a babe at the breast. She had brought Septa Mordane and Maester Luwin with her from Riverrun … but still. Her mother must have felt so alone. She shivered. 

As she opened the books, a thick envelope fell out. Curious, Sansa picked it up and examined it. Written on the front, in a strong, neat hand, was inscribed “To Whom It May Concern, On the Record Books of Dragonstone Castle and Island.” It was unsealed.

Sansa unfolded it. 

_I do not presume to know who will be reading this missive. Given the circumstances in which I leave my home of many years, it could be near anyone. Perhaps you will consider me an enemy. Most likely I am dead. But I think to offer you the information I would have liked to receive when I assumed the care of this place, if for nothing else than for the benefit of the people here, who are for the most part dutiful followers of the Lord of Light._

_Whether you have years of experience running a keep or whether you are a freshly wedded and bedded lady, wet behind the ears, I encourage you to forget everything you think you may know about the business of keeping a healthy household. Dragonstone castle is not like other keeps. The incomes will always be modest. Any sort of extravagance or pageantry is impossible. Learn to keep a tight hold on the household purse, to search for the best prices when you must purchase goods, and keep a sharp eye on the servants._

_I have included a list of the farms of the island, the rent they pay, and the particular skills of the peasants. There are better weavers on this island than one might think. We sell much wool and woven cloth in the markets of King’s Landing. Fish and harbour tolls make up much of the rest of our income. You will find that the visiting captains are deft in finding ways to avoid our tolls. Do not let them do this if you want income to clothe you and yours._

_Focus first on keeping people and livestock fed, next on keeping the castle suitably warm, and finally on making certain there is always good boot leather available. I have found that all manner of hardships can be borne with warm feet on a full stomach._

_I have found some measure of contentment in my years here, and I hope the same for your. My advice is not to hope for too much. Accept things as they are; many things that dictate the life of a lady lie outside of her control._

_Good luck, and may R’hllor light your way._  
 _Queen Selyse Baratheon_

Sansa traced the former Queen’s signature with a finger as she let the words of the letter sink in.

_She did not have to do this,_ Sansa thought, placing the parchment down on her desk, wondering if she would have written such a letter had she been Selyse’s position. 

It was clear that Selyse had cared about her people. She had wished to make certain they would not suffer unnecessary hardship under an ill equipped ruler. But she had not only cared about her people. Sansa read the last paragraph of the letter again. _She cared about me too, though she did not know who I was._

_Accept things as they are; many things that dictate the life of a lady lie outside of her control._

Sansa closed her eyes and took a deep breath, trying to rid herself of the ache in her chest.

_She was not a bad person. She was harsh, yes, but competent. She cared. She did her best._

_And now she is dead._

Sansa thought she understood what had led to the woman’s decision to take her own life, but she had to wonder… would she have made the same choice if her beliefs had been different? Sansa knew quite well that accepting things as they were - accepting that a lady’s power was not great - could be a matter of survival, but she could not help but think that in Queen Selyse’s case, her lack of hope had contributed to her death.

_I must not walk down that path. I must not lose hope._

Selyse has written that she hoped the letter’s recipient might find a measure of contentment, but if Selyse had known she was writing to Stannis’ next wife, would she have offered that hope? Would she have given the same advice? Might she have given Sansa useful advice regarding Stannis himself, and not just the castle he had ruled? What warnings might she have given?

It was getting darker outside, Sansa noted. Soon it would be time for dinner.

She turned to the account books themselves. They bore out Selyse’s warnings about the poor returns of the farms on the islands, the need for careful economy. Fuel to heat the castle was a constant theme. There never seemed to be enough. There were no notations of payments to minstrels, few to the fine seamstresses of King’s Landing or to the merchants who provided luxuries. Sansa’s fingers ran over one of the exceptions. 

It was a doll for Shireen, the expense considerable, and clearly carefully budgeted for by her mother. Sansa knew the name of the craftsman. 

The doll was from the finest toymaker in the city. 

_The one who made Princess Myrcella’s toys._

Sansa felt her vision blur. For a moment she felt like she could see her father’s face, smell his scent. Arya was there, Jory was alive, Septa Mordane … and her father offered her the little package …

_I haven’t played with dolls since I was eight,_ she had said.

Sansa closed the account books. Slowly, methodologically. With a deep shuddering breath, she stood up and smoothed down the skirt of her gown.

She did not believe she would be able to accomplish much more today.

A servant led her to the chambers that she was to share with the King. Orders had been given for an early supper for them in their quarters. Sandor was standing guard outside, which meant Stannis was already there.

Sansa dismissed the servant but did not open the door.

“How did it go? With the troops?” she asked Sandor in a low voice. “Have they been given a suitable place to sleep? Did His Grace think to have them fed, or am I to take care of that?” 

Sandor gave her a measured look. “It went well enough. They’re bunking in the barracks. Looked to me that the smuggler was sorting out some grog for them.”

Sansa frowned for a moment before realising that Sandor meant Davos. She had forgotten that he had been a smuggler once. _So much to learn about the people in Stannis’ retinue._ “One less thing to worry about,” she said, shooting Sandor a quick smile. “Have you eaten?”

Sandor examined her face, his eyes lingering on hers. She didn’t look away, and her heart beat a little faster. “I’ll eat later,” he said at length. “You don’t need to worry about me along with all your other cares, little bird.”

Sansa wanted to stay. She wanted to ask Sandor what he had been thinking earlier that day in the Chamber of the Painted Table. She wanted to know whether he thought they had a chance against Cersei. She wanted to know whether he had observed Petyr today, whether there was some new threat she needed to worry about. But soon the servants would be bringing dinner, and Sansa did not want them to catch her whispering with Sandor.

She clasped her hands in front of her, trying to resist the urge to wring them. “There’s so much I wish to -”

“Don’t fret, girl,” Sandor said in his gruff voice, cutting her off. “There’s nothing can be done at the moment. You must do what ladies do, and I must do what guards do.”

“What do guards do?” Sansa asked, speaking half to herself, half to Sandor. Not all her memories of guards were good ones.

“Keep you safe,” Sandor said flatly, his face an unreadable mask of scars and heavy brows. 

“I … I don’t know what that means,” Sansa said. She glanced around at the walls, so dank and looming.

“It is simple enough. Just guard against blades and bows, against poison and treachery. The rest takes care of itself. Or not. But if you don’t do your job, it never has the chance to.”

“That’s it?” Sansa glared at him, incredulous. Yes, it was what she had asked of him, no more, but … it sounded so harsh. _I need more than to just be kept safe. I just don’t know what._

“You think that’s easy? Worth less than all your diplomacy, your jewels and silks? None of them is worth a fuck if you aren’t safe.” He jerked his head towards the door. “You go on, girl. I’m on watch.”

Sansa clasped her hands more tightly together and closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, Sandor was staring straight ahead at the wall opposite.

The chambers Sansa and Stannis were given were spacious, but they were dreary and rather sparsely furnished. As Stannis did not seem surprised by this, Sansa assumed that Theon had not given them insultingly ill appointed quarters, however. Perhaps all the chambers in the castle were similar. If Selyse’s letter was anything to go by, sparsely furnished chambers were to be expected.

… Or perhaps these were the quarters Stannis had shared with Queen Selyse? That would explain Stannis’ lack of surprise, too. _I hope not,_ she thought, looking around again and shivering. Even after everything that had happened in Winterfell - the fire and the Boltons - there had been much more warmth in the Lord’s chambers of her childhood home. 

Dinner was served before Sansa managed to ascertain whether the servants had unpacked her belongings properly, and the food was the same as the chambers: it would do, but it was nothing lavish or particularly enticing.

She and Stannis ate in silence.

Sansa observed her husband as he cut his meat into pieces with precision, and chewed in his usual meticulous way. He seemed deep in thought.

She sipped the lemon water they had been brought, and wondered whether she would have to get used to doing without wine in the future. Stannis never seemed to drink any, and he did not offer to send for wine like he had on their wedding night. She did not care for wine very much, but it seemed odd not to even have the _option._

“What do you think?” Stannis asked after he had cleared his plate.

“Pardon?” Sansa said, not sure what exactly he was asking her.

“What do you think of Dragonstone?” Stannis elaborated, gesturing vaguely at their austere surroundings.

Sansa took a sip of her water. “It’s very… impressive,” she said at length.

Stannis grunted. “Very dismal, you mean.”

“Bleak,” Sansa countered, “I would say bleak rather than dismal.”

“Impressively bleak,” Stannis muttered, taking a drink of his own water. “That’s accurate enough.”

“The Dreadfort is probably worse,” Sansa said, “I’ve been told it’s full of torture chambers and flayed human skin. At least Dragonstone just has stone dragons.”

“You don’t know if that’s true,” Stannis said. His voice was sharp, cold. “You can’t compare the reality of Dragonstone to something you’ve imagined of the Dreadfort.”

“I’m fairly sure the Dreadfort is even worse than what I could imagine,” Sansa said, lifting her chin and daring Stannis to argue with her. She had lived with Ramsay for a long time. She had no trouble believing that the Dreadfort was full of torture chambers, human skin, and all sorts of terrible things.

“Who rules the Dreadfort now?” Stannis asked, declining to continue the argument.

“I’m not certain,” Sansa said, frowning as she tried to recall whether Bran had made a decision about the matter. “I think Bran wanted to discuss it with the other northern lords.”

Stannis nodded. “There are several keeps in the north - and in the south - that need new lords.”

“You might consider awarding lordships to the men who fought bravely beside you at the Wall,” Sansa suggested, tilting her head to the side.

“That is what I had intended,” Stannis said, frowning at her. “Though I do not think I will award Storm’s End to anyone once I have taken it off Olenna Tyrell’s hands. A castellan will do.”

“Oh?”

Stannis cleared his throat and looked down at his lap. “Storm’s End will go to one of our children. Not the heir to the throne, of course, but hopefully we will have more than one son.”

_Not if Petyr has anything to say about it._

Sansa’s stomach shrank at the thought. She would have worried about her ability to give Stannis children in the best of circumstances, and Petyr’s plan just… complicated everything. “I hope I will be able to give you many healthy sons,” she said, her heart beating more quickly than it should. She was tempted to wring her hands under the table, but gripped her cup instead.

Stannis’ pupils seemed to grow as he watched her, and she saw him swallow. There was something hungry in his look -- even though he had just eaten.

He cleared his throat again, looking more awkward than hungry now. “When - er - when did you last…” Stannis trailed off and took a deep breath. “Your moon blood,” he then managed, meeting her eyes. “When did you last bleed?”

Sansa’s stomach seemed to twist about inside her.

“Not long after we set sail from Eastwatch,” she said. 

She watched Stannis anxiously, bracing herself for the possibility of his anger.

“So it has been about a fortnight since?” Stannis asked, furrowing his brow in concentration. He did not seem angry.

Sansa was still tense with worry. “Yes,” she said, feeling herself blush despite her best efforts. It seemed embarrassing to discuss this.

“How long until your courses come again?” Stannis asked, no longer looking awkward. He just seemed focused.

“They usually come very regularly,” Sansa said, straightening her back and hoping this fact would please Stannis. She knew it was thought to be quite good when a woman’s moon blood came at easily predictable times. “Every four weeks or so. I would therefore expect my moon blood to come in another fortnight.”

Stannis stood up very quickly. “You are in the middle of your cycle?” he asked, walking over to her side of the table and looking expectantly at her.

Sansa held her breath and wondered if he wanted her to stand up as well, but decided to stay seated. She looked up at him and nodded. “Yes, I suppose I am.”

“Maester Cressen always advised Selyse and me to lie together when she was in the middle of her cycle,” Stannis said, his face becoming very flushed. “It increases the odds of the seed quickening.”

Sansa started to breathe again. Stannis definitely did not seem angry. She strained her memory and felt almost sure she had heard something similar about moon cycles once. She had missed so much knowledge that her lady mother or her septa would have ordinarily given her once she flowered. But she thought Stannis was right. She didn’t know what to say, however, so she just nodded. 

Her heart was pounding, and she felt sure Stannis was about to ask her to accept his attentions before they went to sleep that night. 

The hungry look was back in his eyes.

_Perhaps he will ask me to accept his attentions right now?_ Sansa thought, feeling her heart start to beat even harder, hammering powerfully in her chest and making her want to breathe much faster.

There was no guarantee that he would always be as gentle as he had been on their wedding night.

_At least he would ask_ , she thought, _not simply take._ But that thought just made her heart beat faster. 

A loud knock at the door broke the tense silence between them.

They both looked towards it, and Stannis snapped out an irritated command for the person without to enter.

A frightened looking servant came into the room. He had been sent to inform them that Theon was waiting for them to join him the Chamber of the Painted Table whenever it suited them. Apparently her husband was not done with work for the day. Stannis told the servant that they would be along soon, and the frightened young man left.

The intense moment the servant had interrupted was gone. Stannis did not ask Sansa any more questions about moon blood or anything in that vein, and her heart started to beat more normally. She mostly felt relieved that Stannis was keeping silent, but a small part of her was… oddly discontent. It wasn’t that she was eager to couple with her husband again or desperate to have him ask to lie with her, but she knew it was important for them to do their duty together in order to put a baby in her belly: an heir that would join the kingdoms of the north and the south.

_You must do what ladies do._

Sansa felt as if she were being pulled in two separate directions. Part of her wanted Stannis to just get it over with and _ask_ , and part of her hoped he would leave her in peace. She looked down at her hands and saw that she was digging her nails into her palms. She didn’t really feel it

When she looked back up, she saw that Stannis was already getting ready to leave for their meeting with Theon. Sansa forced her hands to relax, took a quiet breath, and started to get herself ready, too.

She was sure that Stannis would ask her to do her duty soon enough, and she would meet that challenge when it came.


	7. The King's Council

Seeing to the unloading of the ships and the garrisoning of the island had been the work of a long, hard afternoon. The wind had been blowing hard off the open sea to the east and bringing with it icy drops of rain that left the men all soaked to the bone. Stannis’ joints ached. 

_I am not as young as I used to be,_ he could not help but think. He was _tired._

But showing weakness had been out of the question, not with Clegane ordering men around and tossing heavy bundles like they were made of feathers. It had felt very important to stride around and give some of his own orders to the captains of the ships, to remain visible and prominent rather than seek shelter from the weather. He couldn't help but notice that Clegane seemed particularly prone to displays of strength when Stannis was working nearby. How absurd could the man be?

Trudging up the interminable flights of stairs to the Chamber of the Painted Table, his young queen by his side, Stannis found himself brooding on this castle he was once again living in. This damnable castle that Robert had pretended was a reward. Exiled to this frigid, damp rock, when Storm’s End should have been his by rights. And Robert had the gall to clap Stannis on the shoulder and offer congratulations before he went off drinking, leaving Stannis and Jon Arryn to do the work of running the kingdom. 

And then after years of that, Robert hadn’t even made Stannis Hand of the King when Jon died. No, he had turned to …

_I should not think of these things._

But maybe, he could not help but think, he was tired because of more than just the physical exertion. Years and years of labour that went unrewarded, unrecognized, lay behind him. What did he face now? More battles, more strife, more disrespect. 

He held the door for Sansa. _She_ had been able to change, possibly even to bathe. She smelled of the lavender she packed into her bags. Stannis felt his blood heating at the smell like nothing else had been able to warm him all day. 

_Sansa is in the middle of her moon cycle. She said she wishes to give me many healthy sons._

He hoped that the meeting could be resolved quickly.

Two hours later, Stannis reflected that had not experienced such a headache in a very long time. Not since he and his council had met to write the letter that proclaimed that Stannis was Robert’s true heir, and that Joffrey and his siblings were all bastards.

It was taking a long time to finish the letter, and every minute that went without much progress seemed a terrible waste. Baelish had insisted on attending the meeting, and the intolerable man had an opinion about every word that might or might not be written. Stannis was on the verge of having him thrown into the dungeon.

“Just write that I will burn Highgarden, Sunspear, and the Starry Sept itself to the ground if they don’t all bend the knee,” Stannis grumbled after Theon, Davos, Littlefinger, and Sansa had argued for fifteen minutes over how best to phrase the fact that Stannis had dragons at his disposal.

Theon, who was acting as scribe, hesitated in the middle of dipping his pen in ink.

Davos and Sansa both gave Stannis shocked and disapproving looks, and Sansa gestured to Theon not to continue writing.

“You agreed that diplomacy was the best way to go forward in this matter, Your Grace,” she said, her eyes full of judgment. There was judgement in Davos’ eyes too.

Stannis knew why. He felt a sharp pain in his chest. With a sigh he averted his eyes and rubbed his forehead. “Yes, I know.”

“Threatening possible allies is not going to be helpful,” Sansa continued, glancing briefly at the guards at the door.

Stannis had a brief recollection of his mother scolding him and Robert in that tone of voice, and grimaced.

“Haven’t you had your fill of fire? They will all believe you are still a religious fanatic of you make such threats,” Davos chipped in, his voice gentler, but his eyes accusing.

Stannis scowled and felt his stomach twist up with grief and shame. “I already said that I _know._ ”

Sansa’s lips thinned and her eyes narrowed, but she didn’t say anything. Neither did Davos. Stannis felt a brief surge of triumph at having stopped them scolding him, but it was followed by a sinking feeling, and a strange, numb sensation that seemed to make his ears ring.

His mood blackened further when an unhelpful voice at the back of his mind whispered that laying with his wife tonight had just become more difficult and awkward.

Stannis pushed the useless self-pity aside when he observed that Davos appeared ready to go back to work. Anger and judgment lingered in Davos’ gaze, however.

Somewhere over by the door a guard’s armour creaked, and Stannis did not have to glance over there to know that the Hound probably judging him, too.

 _At least Baelish isn’t judging me,_ Stannis thought, noticing the man yawn.

He kept quiet as Sansa, Davos and Lord Baelish resumed the debate, and agreed readily when they decided it would be best to mention the dragons in passing, but not make any overt threats.

When the terms had finally been decided, Stannis felt rather like he had felt before his meeting with Renly. He had agreed to make a lot of concessions so that his rule would not be questioned. More concessions than he felt he should have to make.

Hopefully Olenna Tyrell, Ellaria Sand, and Varys would be more sensible than his younger brother.

If they agreed to the terms suggested in the letter, he would have to tolerate all of them on his small council. All except Ellaria. He could not stand the idea of such an unpredictable woman running around his keep. She would have to go back to Dorne. He would legitimise her eldest daughter to appease her, and thus Martell rule would be reestablished in the south. Olenna Tyrell would have her pick of the most impressive young men of Westeros for Elinor Tyrell, and would be offered the position of master of coin. Varys would be offered his old position as master of whisperers.

Stannis was suspicious to find that Lord Baelish did not at all seem interested in influencing his choices regarding the small council. _As master of law he could easily have argued that he should have a say…_

“Anything else?” Theon asked, lifting pen from paper and looking expectantly at Stannis.

But it was not Stannis who answered him.

“I think we should end the letter by reminding them that whether they believed Daenerys or Robert to have been the rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, they should consider that King Stannis is the rightful heir in either case. He is the only living trueborn descendant of Rhaelle Targaryen Baratheon,” Sansa said. Her voice was strong, but her eyes flickered downwards as she spoke. It was a strange moment of uncertainty for his wilful young wife. 

Stannis felt a pang in his chest. _Even my queen does not have full confidence in my ability to press my claim._

Theon was given leave to add Sansa’s suggested words to the letter.

Once Stannis had signed and sealed the roll of paper, he wanted to lead Sansa to their chambers at once. It was nearing midnight, and he wanted to use what remained of his energy to lie with his wife and hopefully get her with child.

“I think we’ve done excellent work tonight, Your Grace,” Baelish said briskly. He looked at Theon. “And thanks to our castellan here, we will all be sleeping in comfortable beds which shall be most welcome after weeks at sea. My gratitude to our capable host.” He dipped his head, a smile playing around his lips. 

Sandor Clegane gave a small but audible snort.

Theon looked taken aback by the sudden attention. He looked around uncertainly. “May I offer you all a drink?” He asked, seeming to grasp at his courtesies. 

Stannis was seized, not for the first time, by the urge to run the man through with his sword. If it had taken Theon a second longer to bend the knee earlier that day, Stannis probably _would_ have executed him.

 _And where would that have left me?_ Stannis thought, his flash of anger dying down. _Certainly without the useful information Greyjoy was able to provide. And it would have been poor payment for his capable management of Dragonstone._

Still, that was no reason to stand around making small talk while Stannis had urgent … priorities … to attend to. He opened his mouth to refuse the wine.

“Thank you,” Sansa said, accepting the offer, “that would be lovely.”

Stannis glared at Theon, but the man had turned around to pour Sansa’s wine for her, and did not notice.

Lord Baelish showed an interest in getting a drink, and Stannis glared at him too, feeling just as irritated with him. The letter could surely have been written and complete hours ago if the infernal man had not found it necessary to examine every word Theon put to paper thrice over. It was as if he was _trying_ to irritate Stannis.

Well, with Baelish that was probably a given. But he was being particularly provoking tonight.

Davos declined the wine. Stannis had always liked him.

“Your Grace?” Theon was looking at him now, his hand poised to pour wine into a third goblet.

Stannis shook his head and glared even more viciously at Theon. Theon blanched, poured himself a goblet of wine, and took a large gulp.

“This is good,” Sansa said, having tasted her own wine rather more delicately than Theon had. 

“Dornish red?” Littlefinger asked, having taken a sip of his own.

“From the Arbour, actually,” Theon said. “They are known for their whites, but there are some red vintages that are really very, very good.” He coughed. “Lord Redwyne made a gift of this to qu … to Daenerys.” 

Sansa responded with some commentary about the wine, but Stannis suspected she was just making conversation about something she did not truly appreciate any more than he did. Baelish replied with some observations about the trade on the west coast of Westeros. And then something about harbour tolls, which Sansa fringed interest in and Stannis actually had opinions on and might have been interested in discussing at some length … in Very Different Circumstances. 

It dragged on. And on. And on. 

Finally, there was a stretch of silence.

“I agree with Petyr that we’ve done some excellent work this evening,” Sansa said, apparently unperturbed by the fact that she was carrying the conversation mostly on her own by this point. “I’m sure the Tyrells and the Martells will swear fealty and join our cause. Without bloodshed.”

“Do you think I could sail to the Iron Islands with Yara after that?” Theon asked, sounding as if he hardly dared to be hopeful.

Sansa looked at Stannis, her eyebrows raised in question.

Though Stannis did not have anything against letting Greyjoy run to his sister in principle, he hesitated. The war against Cersei had barely begun, and it might be useful to have Theon nearby. Yara had promised not to rebel against the crown, but she would be more likely to keep her word if Stannis had Theon under his control. And Theon had proved himself competent. Stannis appreciated competence.

“I will have to find a suitable lord for Dragonstone first,” Stannis said, buying himself a little time.

Theon met his eyes, and judging by the slightly crumpled look on his face, Theon knew some of what Stannis had been thinking. Theon had been a hostage since he was a child. He was not stupid.

“I’m tired,” Theon whispered, giving Sansa another mournful look. “Would you mind if I were to retire for the night?”

Sansa looked surprised, but she gave Theon a smile. “Of course not. Sleep well.”

Theon nodded, gulped down the rest of his wine, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, and left.

Littlefinger looked at Stannis and then at Sansa, a shrewd gleam in his eyes. Then, with a small smirk, he made quick work of his wine, murmured something Stannis did not hear to Sansa, and bid them a good night, too.

Stannis gave Davos a significant look, and with a nod and a polite word to Sansa, Davos followed Littlefinger.

Sansa walked over to the nearest window and took in the dark view once they were alone, sipping her wine as if she had all the time in the world. Stannis had a brief vision of himself taking her on the painted table, but pushed the thought from his mind almost at once. Clegane and the other guard were still standing by the door. And even if they hadn’t been, it would be completely inappropriate to treat his wife in such a way.

“We should retire to our chambers, Sansa,” he said.

She continued to stare out the window. “It’s pitch black outside,” she whispered.

It was as if she hadn’t heard him.

He clenched his jaw and walked over to her. He was tempted to stand right behind her and press his body against hers, but he didn’t. Instead he left a respectful distance between them and looked at the view that had her so entranced. It was just as dark as she said, and mostly he could see their reflections in the glass, but Stannis remembered what he should be seeing. Barren rocks, a sandy beach and the ocean stretching towards the horizon.

He could hear the waves.

“There were always lights in King’s Landing.”

“Dragonstone is not King’s Landing.”

Sansa turned to face him. She was still holding her goblet of wine, and Stannis wished she would put it down.

“Will you be disappointed if our first child is a girl?” Sansa asked, looking up at him with wide blue eyes.

He was taken aback by the question; it seemed to come out of nowhere.

“The realm needs sons, and that is what I hope for most, to secure the line,” he said, not seeing the point in being dishonest, “but daughters would be welcome, too. Very welcome.”

The pain that was always with him sharpened. _Shireen would have been a kind, wise, and just ruler._

Sansa searched his face for a moment before nodding.

“I’m sorry I was not able to conceive on our wedding night as my mother did,” she said, turning to look out the window again. She took a sip of her wine and stared at the darkness outside.

“The time wasn’t right,” Stannis muttered. Almost as soon as he had spoken he was struck by the thought that she was sorry for more than one reason. If she had managed to fall pregnant after their first time together, she would not have had to lie with him again until after the child was born. Was she sorry that she would have to lie with him again so soon?

Feeling his face grow warm, Stannis forced himself to speak. “We do not have to do anything tonight,” he said in a low voice that would not carry to the guards at the door. “I will not force you.”

“I know,” Sansa whispered. She had wrapped her free arm around herself, and she was holding her goblet close to her chest. Their eyes met in the glass of the window, their reflections surprisingly vivid. “But it is our duty,” she added, her voice stronger. “The realm needs an heir.”

A strange pulse of arousal and discomfort put him off balance. He didn’t quite know what to do or say, so he kept silent and still. Her words echoed inside his mind, and his heart started to beat faster and faster. His body was still sore and tired, but he felt himself suddenly full of a jangly energy. 

_She is willing to accept my attentions. She wishes to do her duty._

Sansa finished her wine and took a deep breath. “Shall we?” She put her goblet down on a nearby sideboard and clasped her hands in front of her. She was giving him one of her expectant looks, and Stannis realised he was supposed to be doing something. His wits were failing him, however, and he could not think what it was.

She looked at his arm and then at the door.

 _Of course._ Stannis attempted to move with dignity as he offered her his arm like she clearly wanted, but he was fairly sure he appeared stiff and ill at ease despite his best efforts.

They were silent as he led the way to their chambers, guards trailing after them at a discreet distance. He had been able to tell that Sansa had not been particularly impressed with the chambers Theon had given them when she had first seen them, but he knew for a fact that they were the best, most spacious guest quarters. The Lord’s chamber was better furnished, perhaps, but Stannis did not really wish to stay there. He had never much wanted to stay there. Or in this castle.

Sansa’s maid was waiting when they arrived, and Stannis made himself scarce while she helped his wife prepare for bed. He kept an eye on the door that led to the bedchamber as he paced impatiently around the outer room where they had eaten their dinner, and strained his ears in an attempt to hear whether Sansa was talking to the maid.

He couldn’t hear much at all. Either the two women were silent or the thick door and the stone walls were keeping the sounds of their voices from carrying.

“Good night, Your Grace,” the maid said when she finally emerged, her head bowed as she walked past with a bundle in her arms. Clothing that needed to be washed, Stannis guessed. 

He grunted instead of returning the greeting properly. Hopefully the maid would not realise that the King of Westeros was too nervous to speak.

He waited until the maid was gone. Once he was alone, he allowed himself one deep breath before he resolutely straightened his back.

There was nothing to worry about. He had done this before.


	8. The Queen's Bed

Stannis stood and stared at the door to the bedchamber. Sansa’s maid had left it ajar, and he could see that a fire had been lit in the hearth inside. The flickering light spilled out of the opening.

He swallowed thickly and marched towards the door. Perhaps it would be easier to do this a second time. Perhaps Sansa would not need quite as much as time to become prepared. He would be patient if she did, but he still felt a twinge of pain below his belt when he recalled how long he had been required to wait last time.

He was already unbuckling his sword belt when he entered the bedchamber, but his fingers started to fumble uselessly the moment he saw his wife.

She was beautiful.

Her hair had been let down to cascade down her back, and it had clearly been brushed to a glossy shine. She was sitting on the side of the bed, wearing only a very thin shift - or a nightgown? - and he could see her long legs through the fabric. She clearly wasn’t wearing any stockings, which made Stannis think that she was unlikely to be wearing smallclothes. The thought made his pulse quicken. He tugged uselessly at his belt. The pressure against the front of his breeches was rapidly increasing, and he felt as if his blood was rushing down from his head too quickly. It made him want to sit down.

Sansa stood up. Her lips were tight, and there was colour in her cheeks. He could see her throat move as she swallowed. “Would you like me to help?” she offered.

Stannis forced himself to focus despite the haze that had clouded his senses. She looked nothing short of stunning standing up like that, her nightgown clinging to the soft curves of her body.

_Must I turn into an imbecile whenever I am faced with a scantily clad redhead?_

Turning away from her in an attempt to gain a little more control of himself, he managed to get his belt off. It was embarrassing, but he felt a surge of triumph at this petty little victory.

“No, I’m perfectly capable of doing without assistance.” He glanced over his shoulder, wondering whether Sansa would volunteer to help him regardless.

She did not. She blushed and sat back down, her hands folded demurely in her lap. and did not look up as he continued to undress. He stopped looking at her. It was… distracting, and unlacing his breeches was challenging enough as it was.

Feeling distinctly exposed and off balance, Stannis quickly got under the covers once he had stripped. It felt good to be rid of his constrictive breeches and his smallclothes, but it was also a little too tempting to tug on himself and try to relieve the ache of his arousal now that he was free.

Sansa glanced at him in surprise once he was covered. Surprise was replaced with uncertainty, and she bit her lip in a way that made his cock twitch and his breath catch.

“Should I -?” Sansa touched a ribbon at her shoulder and gave him a questioning look. “Or would you like to -?”

He realised she was asking whether she should undress herself or allow him to do so. “What would you prefer?” he rasped, unable to look away from the neat bow. He could tell that he would just have to give a little tug and it would unravel. But watching her remove it … that would be enticing too.

“I .. would prefer to keep it on,” Sansa said in a low voice.

_Keep it on?_

Stannis swallowed his disappointment and nodded. “As you wish.” He had seen glimpses of her body on their wedding night, and he had hoped for more this time. 

_Don’t be a fool,_ he scolded himself. _Staring at her won’t put an heir in her belly._

Sansa got under the furs with him, and for a few awkward moments they simply lay there on their backs without touching each other, his cock tenting the bedclothes embarrassingly.

“May I kiss you?” he asked at length, trying to think of a way to get started.

He heard her draw in a deep breath. “Yes.”

Stannis rolled to his side and was unable to resist the impulse to press the length of his body to hers. A small grunt escaped him when his cock came into contact with her thigh. The friction her skin provided felt maddeningly good against his fevered, aroused flesh.

Sansa was very tense, however, so he tried not to rub himself against her too much. Instead he focused on bringing his lips to hers, moving slowly so that he wouldn’t surprise her.

It took a very long time to coax her into parting her lips, and an even longer time to kiss him back. It felt intensely pleasurable to feel her tongue against his, and she tasted faintly of the wine she had been drinking. But despite her enticing softness, she was still just… lying there, her body rigid after several minutes, and Stannis was beginning to feel frustrated with her.

She had said she was willing to do her duty, and yet she was barely meeting him halfway.

_This isn’t easy for any of us. But it comes with being of noble birth. Selyse and I managed, and we were more strangers than Sansa and I._

“Are you prepared?” he asked her, even though he could feel her stiffen up even more at the question.

“No,” she said, looking up at him in a way that made him want to tear his own hair out. She was so _vulnerable_ and yet so _desirable._

“What would you have me do, Sansa?” he asked, doing his best to sound patient. He was fairly sure he failed.

“I don’t know,” she said in a small voice.

Yara’s advice floated to the forefront of Stannis’ mind unbidden. _”Just lick her cunt until she’s so wet that it doesn’t matter how inept you undoubtedly are with your cock, and then let her ride you like a horse.”_

Stannis decided he was not quite desperate enough to try it yet.

“Would you like me to kiss your neck?” She had seemed to like that last time.

She nodded, but did not seem any less tense.

He tried to do what he had done on their wedding night, and wondered if he should touch her teats. He decided not to risk that quite yet, and focused on tasting the soft skin of her neck and trying to get her to relax.

“Anything?” Stannis asked after a while, hoping that Sansa was at least on her way to becoming prepared.

“I… I don’t know. No.” Sansa still sounded tense and nervous, and Stannis was forced to close his eyes for a moment and take a deep breath.

“Are you sure you wish to do this?” he asked, unable to keep a slightly accusatory tone from his voice. Why had she said that she was willing if she wasn’t even going to _try?_

“I want to do my duty,” Sansa said, her tone defensive and a little stubborn. “It’s just hard for me.”

Stannis closed his eyes again and suppressed an irritated sigh. _It’s certainly hard for me, too._

“What can I do to help you?” he asked through gritted teeth, willing her to give a proper answer this time.

“I don’t know!” Sansa sounded frustrated, worried, and frightened.

Stannis wished he could stop being aroused while he figured this out, but despite the tense situation, his cock was all too eager to do its work.

“Should I touch you like last time?” he suggested, trying to speak patiently. He did not want Sansa to be afraid.

She nodded again and bit her lip.

He took a deep breath and slowly began to fondle one of her teats through the thin silk of her nightgown. He could feel her nipple puckering at his touch, making him want to _see,_ but he told himself that it was not necessary for him to see her to make this pleasant for her. All he needed to do was remember to be _gentle._ Even if it was very tempting to grab and squeeze a little. She was so soft...

It was very strange how much more difficult it was to put Sansa at ease this time around. She had seemed much more _willing_ on their wedding night.

By the time he had worked up the nerve to touch her between her legs she was still rather dry to the touch, and stiff as a board. Her lack of response eventually caused his arousal to flag, which made Stannis panic slightly and fumble around with his fingers.

Sansa flinched and let out a whimper.

Stannis pulled his hand back, sighed, and sat up. “This isn’t going well.”

“I’m sorry,” Sansa said at once, her brow furrowed and her eyes full of anxiety. There was a glimmer of unshed tears. “I’m trying, I really am. I’ll keep trying until I get it right, I promise. Please - please don’t be angry.”

He looked down at her, feeling a little helpless. Had he done such a poor job of hiding his frustration? 

“Maybe - maybe I could touch you?” Sansa suggested, blushing brightly. Her eyes betrayed fear, but the set of her jaw was resolute.

Stannis blinked at her, surprised that she would wish to do something like that, but unable to come up with a good reason to object. His arousal had all but disappeared, and if they were to make an heir…

“Should I lie down?” he asked, wincing at how awkward and unsure he sounded.

“I think that would be best.” Sansa’s fear seemed to be fading, and she already seemed a little less tense.

Stannis got on his back beside her, and watched as she got up on one elbow so that she might lean over him. The covers were hiding his body from the middle of his chest down, but the first thing she did was shoot him a questioning look as she tugged on them. He felt a little apprehensive as he nodded, wondering if she meant to expose him fully, but she only uncovered his abdomen.

Her eyes full of steely determination now, she started to explore his chest with her fingers. It felt pleasant, though it tickled when her nails scraped against a certain spot under his ribs. He made sure not to flinch or give her any reason to suspect that he was ticklish of course, but somehow she seemed to _know._

Her fingers lingering in that torturous spot, she brought her lips to his and gave him a gentle but firm kiss. He tried to deepen it, but she moved away and started to kiss his neck and his shoulders instead.

“You have very broad shoulders,” she whispered after a while.

Thankfully, she was no longer tickling him. “Not as broad as Robert’s,” he muttered.

“He was broad in many ways,” Sansa said, sounding both nervous and a little amused. “Not all good.”

Stannis’ lips quirked, and he noticed that some of Sansa’s nervous energy drained away at his response.

“True enough,” he said, trying to make her understand that he was not offended by her little joke, and hoping to see the rest of her tension fade away.

She seemed to take heart from his words, and started to stroke him with the very tips of her fingers a little below his navel. 

Suddenly it was as if his arousal had never gone anywhere at all. It surged through him more powerfully than before, and an involuntary groan escaped his lips at the sensation. “ _Sansa..._ ”

He had closed his eyes due to the pleasure of her touch, and when he opened them he could see that Sansa was blushing and looking nervous again. She was staring at the bulge his renewed arousal had created.

“Do I frighten you?” he asked, watching her eyes carefully.

She blanched and stared at him in dismay. The look in her eyes told him everything he needed to know.

“What is it that frightens you?” He didn’t understand what it could be. He had shown her on their wedding night that he would not hurt her. He had kissed her, he had been patient. She had seemed to enjoy herself when she hadn’t been crying…

Suddenly her eyes were full of steel. “I am not afraid,” she insisted. “I am willing to do my duty.”

_Duty. Must she remind me over and over that this is duty?_

“Lie down, then,” he said, resisting the urge to glare at her.

Sansa’s lips thinned, and the steel in her eyes wavered, but she got on her back.

He felt between her thighs again, and had to suppress a sigh of annoyance when it became clear that she was _still_ not prepared.

_Just do it. Yara will never know._

“Spread your thighs and stay still,” he ordered, feeling his face become warm. Was he really going to try this?

Sansa’s eyes widened with naked fear.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he explained, his face feeling even hotter. “I - I intend to give you the Lord’s Kiss.”

Sansa’s brow furrowed. She did not appear to understand.

“It will help prepare you,” he said, trying to sound certain of himself, and trying to appear as if he knew what he was doing as he moved down to kneel beside her feet.

Hesitantly, warily, Sansa spread her thighs under the covers.

He took a deep breath and hoped there was no particular technique to performing this act. With his stomach tying itself into nervous knots, he got under the covers and settled himself between Sansa’s tense thighs.

It was dark and hot under the covers, but it was not hard to find the place he sought. Still, his first hesitant kiss missed its mark. He kissed her a little to the left of her folds, and heard her gasp in surprise. Feeling embarrassed at his lack of aim, he hurriedly kissed her again at her very centre. There was a musky smell to her that was not unpleasant, and he wondered what she would taste like on his tongue.

It was uncomfortable to stay in this position, so he decided to hurry up and do what Yara had suggested. He _licked._

“Oh!”

Stannis ignored Sansa’s startled cry as it did not sound as if wished him to stop. She tasted like skin usually tasted, but there was a slightly sour tang, too. He didn’t really like it, but he had tasted worse things. He licked her again, and wondered how many times he was supposed to do it.

Sansa’s thighs moved a little, and it seemed to him as if she were squirming.

“Are you well?” he asked, hoping that she would be able to hear him despite the way his voice was muffled due to the covers that were suffocating him.

“Y-yes,” she stammered.

“Shall I continue?”

“If - if you like.” She sounded rather embarrassed.

“Do you think it will help prepare you?” he asked, not wishing to endure this discomfort if it would not yield results.

There was a long silence. Stannis was about to repeat his question when Sansa finally answered.

“Yes,” she said, still sounding embarrassed.

He was starting to sweat, and his muscles were complaining about the odd position his was in, so he hurriedly started to lick her again, wanting to get this over with.

He did not know where it was best to lick, so he tried to reach everywhere that was not too covered in downy hair. His tongue got tired if he tried to lick too quickly, so he ended up finding a steady rhythm that he thought he might be able to maintain for longer.

Sansa started to make little noises after a short while, and they, along with the increasingly musky taste of her, encouraged him to think that he might actually be doing some good.

When Sansa let out a long, low moan, Stannis decided she had to be ready.

He got from underneath the covers, feeling relieved when his blood started circulating properly again, and the cool air of the chamber soothed his sweaty skin. His arousal had flagged a little, but now that he felt sure he was about to be granted the access he had been working so hard to gain, he felt himself grow fully hard again.

“Ready?” he asked her, moving to join her under the covers once more -- this time without putting his head under.

Sansa looked at him, flushed and a little dazed. “I think so,” she whispered.

“Would you like me to do it like last time?” he asked, wondering if he should suggest that she ride him like Yara had instructed. The thought had crossed his mind on their wedding night, but Sansa had not seemed ready to try anything unusual.

“Yes,” she said, her cheeks reddening still more.

Unable to wait much longer, Stannis got himself situated between her thighs and nudged her until she had lifted her knees to accommodate him properly.

He groaned with relief and pleasure when the head of his cock found her wet entrance, and he started to press forward as soon as he could. He needed to use one hand to steer himself, but once the head was in, he slipped the rest of the the way with a single determined thrust of his hips.

It was awkward to do this under the covers, and he did not really like the fact that she was still in her nightgown, but he reminded himself that he was not doing this for pleasure. He just needed to spill his seed, and he could do that without staring at her bare teats.

It was tempting to start thrusting the way his body wanted - hard and fast - but this was no illicit tryst on a painted table. This was his wife. His _queen._ He owed it to her to treat her with care.

He gritted his teeth and started moving slowly. The friction along the length of his cock was agonisingly pleasurable. His memories - recent as they were - had not done the perfect sensation of being inside her justice.

Breathing loudly through his nose, he forced himself to find a controlled, _gentle_ rhythm. It would take him a little longer to get to his climax this way, but he would not risk hurting her.

Sansa had her eyes closed, and though she did not look entirely relaxed, Stannis was almost sure she was not in pain. Her brow was a furrowed in concentration rather than discomfort, and she was still quite flushed. He could feel her hands gripping his shoulders, and after a while he noticed that she seemed to be tugging on him, pulling him closer.

Was he imagining it?

Sansa’s hands gave a very firm tug, and her lips parted to let a little plaintive noise escape.

He risked a few slightly more powerful thrusts, grunting at the spike of pleasure and satisfaction he experienced at giving into the need to fuck her a little harder.

Sansa made a muffled mewling sort of sound. It was nothing like the ecstatic gasps and moans that Melisandre had produced, but if he was not mistaken it was something in that direction.

The thought of possibly getting Sansa to emit such ecstatic noises overwhelmed his imagination, and without meaning to, he sped up a little more. The heat of her was intense, and the squeeze of her soft inner muscles was the sort of pleasure that made it hard to breathe. His mind flashed to the memory of finding her naked in that hot pool in Winterfell, her teats clearly visible - if a bit distorted - beneath the water. _Pink nipples,_ he recalled. _Pale pink._

He had been looking forward to seeing them again ...

Suddenly his sac was tightening up and his muscles shaking. He tried to cut the sound off, but a choked gasp escaped him as his release flooded his senses.

He ground himself against her, trying to get as deep inside her warmth as he could, his hips thrusting involuntarily forward. He wished he could feel her bare skin pressed against his chest, and the urge to kiss her became too strong to resist.

Stannis tried to keep the kiss gentle, but as Sansa parted her lips without too much prompting, he ended up devouring her in a way that was not courteous in the least.

His hips were still jerking involuntarily when Sansa broke their kiss and made a little noise of complaint

Reluctantly. he pulled his softening cock out of her and rolled to his back. He was completely out of breath, and it took him a while to get his breathing back to normal and return to his senses.

“Are you well?” he asked, feeling a little ashamed of his behaviour. He should not have kissed her quite so demandingly. He should have remained in control of himself.

“I am,” Sansa said, sounding a little surprised. “This was… this was not unpleasant,” she added.

Feeling a bit foolish, but needing to know for future reference, Stannis cleared his throat and asked whether there had been something in particular that had been to her liking.

“I - I like that you don’t hurt me,” Sansa whispered.

Stannis clenched his jaw. It was a shame that Ramsay was already dead. He would have enjoyed strangling the bastard with his bare hands.

“I liked - um - I liked what you did before the…” Sansa trailed off and Stannis was very tempted to rise up on his elbow and look at her. He couldn’t see her face properly with the way they were lying right now. “I liked the Lord’s Kiss,” she continued, still whispering. “I have never been kissed like that before.”

“It is known to be an effective way to prepare a lady,” he said, trying to make it seem as if he were knowledgeable about such things. He was glad that they weren’t able to see each other’s faces now. He could feel himself turning red.

“Thank you,” Sansa said.

Stannis wondered if he should tell her that she was welcome, but decided that it felt too awkward to do so. 

They were quiet for a while.

“Would you like me to go to the sept and pray to the Mother for a son?” Sansa suddenly asked, breaking the silence.

“Melisandre burned the statues from the sept,” Stannis muttered, not knowing how else to answer her. He knew it was right and proper for Sansa to wish for his seed to quicken, but he did not think it was a good sign that she was already seeking aid from the gods. Did she have no confidence in him? In herself?

“Oh,” Sansa said, sounding discomfited. “Would you have me pray to the Lord of Light?”

“No,” Stannis said flatly. The Lord of Light might have brought him back to life, but he had taken Shireen from him. He would not worship any god that demanded such an innocent sacrifice. He would not worship any gods at all. They were too cruel.

“What would you have me do, then?” Sansa asked.

“The gods won’t help you get with child,” Stannis said, feeling irritated. “Maester Cressen always said the best way to increase the chances of conception is for a man spill his seed within his wife as often as possible while she is in the middle of her moon cycle,” he explained, trying to keep his voice even. “I will take you again in the morning if that is agreeable to you, and then we shall wait and see.”

Sansa sat up and looked down at him. “Again so soon?” she asked, the corners of her lips curving downwards.

He tensed up. Was the idea of receiving his attentions again after so short a delay repugnant to her?

“Yes,” he said, sitting up as well and trying not to grind his teeth. “Is that not agreeable?”

“I -”

Stannis did not let her finish her rejection. “I thought you wished to do your duty,” he said, cutting her off. “Duty requires us to lie together.” Bitterness was welling up inside him, choking him. _Am I really so disgusting to her? Is this such a chore? Even Renly had a more willing bride than I do._

Robert would have bedded her without a second thought for her pleasure. Like as not, she’d have had nothing but praise for _him_.

“It is your right to take me as often as you please, Your Grace,” Sansa said, her voice turning cold.

He didn’t like the way she declined to use his given name, and he definitely did not like the way his mind immediately started to envision taking Sansa as often as he pleased. It was lecherous and beneath his dignity to think such thoughts.

“I promised that I would only take you as often as required to sire an heir,” he bit out. “I keep my word, Sansa.”

“It has been twice this month already.”

“It is important to increase the odds of success by bedding more often when the timing is opportune,” Stannis said, his patience wearing thin.

“I’m going to go clean up,” Sansa said, turning her back on him. Stannis was tempted to grab her elbow and force her to stay to finish their conversation, but he suppressed the urge. She would be back soon enough. She had nowhere else to go.

He stewed in his anger and impatience while she was away, the satisfaction of his climax long gone. He felt slighted by the way she seemed to abhor the thought of letting him take her again in the morning. It was insulting that she should argue with him over this, especially after how hard he had worked to make sure their coupling would not hurt her. Had he not proved that he was considerate?

Why did she persist in acting as though his wish to get her with child was so unreasonable? He had told her that they would wait and see after lying together in the morning, hadn’t he? He was not demanding to take her night and day for a moon’s turn.

Perhaps he had been _too_ careful with her. Perhaps she had forgotten that he was her king and her husband, and that she was to do as he told her and trust that he knew best. He was older, wiser, and more experienced. He had probably seen and done more by the time she was born than most men did in their entire lifetime.

When she returned, he was fuming.

“Take your nightgown off,” he ordered.

Sansa had been about to climb into bed, but she froze, her startled expression turning into a fearful one. 

“W-what?” Her voice shook.

“I wish to see you.” He wanted her to know who was in charge.

She stared at him, her face suddenly blank. But she didn’t argue. Stannis felt a moment of satisfaction at that. 

He waited. 

She raised her hand to the ribbons at her shoulder. Her fingers were shaking. He saw it, but couldn’t help his eyes from drifting down to the curve of her breasts. He felt his breath quicken in anticipation.

“Show me,” he told her.

Sansa looked at him, her hand unmoving, and Stannis watched as the light drained from her eyes and the colour from her cheeks. Stannis had seen more life in the reanimated corpses beyond the Wall. She looked ready to faint.

His anger -- his anticipation -- immediately faded away at the sight.

Sansa started tugging at the ribbon to loosen it. She wasn’t looking at him anymore.

With his anger gone, he felt nothing but gut-churning guilt. 

“Stop,” he ordered hoarsely. 

She froze. 

“You don’t have to. I … I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.” 

He waited for her to say something. Acknowledge his apology. 

Nothing. Her cheeks were white as snow. She stared at the wall. 

He shifted. He wished he knew what to say to make things right again. But there was nothing. “I’m - I’m going for a walk. Go to sleep.”

Late into the night, Stannis walked through the castle halls. It was cold and dank. Dragonstone was always cold. His shadow flickered in the torchlight. Dragons were all around him. Cold stone dragons. 

_I hate this place._

A guard dogged his heels, but it wasn’t Clegane. Stannis was grateful for that, for reasons he couldn’t fully articulate. He wasn’t sure he could look up into the man’s eyes tonight. 

Stannis had been within his rights to ask Sansa to undress. He hadn’t done anything wrong.

The memory of the fearful look on Sansa’s face after he had given the order resurfaced, and his stomach lurched with guilt.

It felt wrong.

In the end he wandered into the Sea Dragon Tower and found the maester’s chambers. He went inside, leaving his silent guard outside the door. The chamber was empty and dusty. Clearly nobody had been there for a long time. Stannis lingered despite this, looking at books he knew had once belonged to Maester Cressen.

 _What advice would you give me, old man?_ he wondered, opening an old tome with a cracked, worn spine. It seemed to be about the healing arts.

Stannis could almost hear Cressen’s voice, saying something along the lines of, _‘tread carefully, my lord.’_

 _For how long must I tread carefully?_ Stannis asked himself, scowling at a page filled with incomprehensibly tiny writing. _Why must everything I do be wrong?_

He slammed the book shut.

Stannis did not return to his wife’s bed that night.


	9. The Letter

_Take off your clothes._

Ramsey’s voice had been so calm. Pleasant, even. 

She had thought him not a threat. A minor player, at best. No one of real power. Not so bright, no personal influence. A family that was only ruling on sufferance. Nothing, really. A man to be used and discarded.

_Take off your clothes._

And then … 

Sansa did not dare try to sleep after Stannis left her to go for a walk. Terror kept her awake, her heart beating frantically as she curled up and waited for him to return.

Had Stannis shown his true colours at last? Would he force himself on her if she ever tried to deny him his rights as her husband?

The angry look on his face as he had ordered her to strip was all she could see when she closed her eyes, so she tried to keep them open.

She didn’t understand what had happened. Stannis had been irritable with her before, but never that angry. The fact that he could go from giving her pleasure to treating her so callously frightened her more than she could put into words. At least with Joffrey and Ramsay she had always known what to expect.

She should have bared herself to him. It was what he wanted, and she had no choice but to obey. She was his wife, wedded and bedded, there was no escaping that. And taking off her clothes for his gaze was better than so many other things he could visit on her if he chose. 

And the evening had not been so bad, not at first ...

The Lord’s Kiss had felt very odd and embarrassing, but it had become so very good after a little while. She had felt very disappointed when he had stopped. If she were to be very honest with herself, she had almost felt disappointed when he had spilled his seed, too. His steady movements had been filling her with warmth and making her forget how painful her experiences with Ramsay had been. Her body had been humming with the promise of… _something,_ and Sansa had felt sure for a moment that she would have discovered what it was if Stannis had just kept going for a little longer.

Now she didn’t want to know.

She felt sick at the thought that she had actually enjoyed lying with him. 

All she wanted was to feel safe.

She hugged her knees to her chest and stared at the door, wondering if Stannis would return, and wondering what sort of mood he would be in.

 _Perhaps I am with child,_ she thought, trying to comfort herself. A child would protect her to a certain extent.

A child might result in Stannis’ death.

_And then Petyr will come for me._

The thought left her cold.

At least an hour went by, and Stannis did not return. Her terror faded, though she was still felt wary. Her eyes were tired, and she had to fight to keep them open.

A soft knock at her door changed all that.

She didn’t know what to do. If it was Stannis, she couldn’t really order him away. If it was someone else…

_Petyr, perhaps?_

“Little bird?” The words were muffled by the heavy wooden door, but there was no mistaking Sandor’s voice.

She hurriedly put on a robe and went to open the door, her heart pounding in her chest.

“Sandor?” she whispered, looking up at him and trying to understand why he was knocking on her door in the middle of the night.

“Could you let me in?” Sandor asked gruffly. “The other guard is with Stannis. No one will know.”

Sansa hesitated. It was highly inappropriate. But she had been alone in her chambers with Sandor before. Nothing untoward had happened.

She stood aside and let him pass.

“What happened?” Sandor asked as soon as the door closed behind him. “Did that little shit hurt you?”

It was strange to hear Stannis described as _little._ He had seemed very large and intimidating an hour ago.

“No,” she said, tugging her robe more firmly closed. “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Because I can cut his cock off if you want, king or no.”

“ _No,_ ” Sansa said firmly, shuddering as she recalled what Ramsay had done to Theon. Ramsay had told her about it in loving detail. Shown her, too ...

They were silent for a moment and Sansa drew in a deep breath.

“I don’t know if I can trust him,” she whispered. “Sometimes I think I can, but at other times…”

Sandor shifted in a way that Sansa guessed had been involuntary based on how quickly he had stilled. It had been almost as if he had wanted to reach for her.

“You should never trust a man,” he muttered, clenching his hands into fists. There was something akin to self-loathing in his eyes.

“I don’t know what to do,” Sansa whispered, hugging herself around the middle. She needed Stannis’ help if she was to stop Petyr’s plans from coming into fruition, but how was she to ask for Stannis’ help if she couldn’t trust him?

“Sometimes men like him just need to be reminded that their actions have consequences,” Sandor said, his sword hand grasping the hilt of his blade, eyes flashing.

_Consequences…_

Sansa’s fears and worries suddenly stopped clouding her mind. She remembered that she was not some helpless prisoner anymore. She had powerful allies. She had Jon and Bran. She had Sandor. Maybe even Tyrion.

She thought of Selyse’s letter for a moment. The former queen had urged Sansa to accept things as they were. To accept that some things were out of her control. But though Sansa believed it was good advice, she also believed there had to be a way to make sure that Stannis treated her with the respect she deserved. A way that did not involve Sandor taking a sword to his manhood.

Feeling stronger, and keeping in mind that even if she could not control everything, she did hold some power, Sansa dropped her arms and straightened her spine.

“You should go,” she said, wondering how much time had gone by since she had allowed Sandor to enter her chambers. _Not long…_

Sandor gave her a look that made her breath catch, but he didn’t say anything. He just stared at her, and nodded.

The door closed near silently behind him.

Sansa was eventually able to drift off to sleep, but it took a very long time.

She woke up alone. 

Stannis had not returned to bed during the night, and as it was already quite late, she doubted he would be coming to bed her again like he had said he wanted.

Sansa called for Laoren. As her maid helped her get ready for the day, all the while chatting about her explorations of Dragonstone castle. While she worked and talked, a plan took shape in Sansa’s mind.

“You wouldn’t happen to have seen the King this morning?” Sansa asked while Laoren carefully pinned her hair back.

“No, Your Grace,” Laoren said, “but I heard one of the servants -- Penta, she serves at the table, she’s to marry the chandler -- saying that King Stannis, Lord Seaworth, and Lord Baelish joined Lord Greyjoy for breakfast.”

Sansa wasn’t sure whether it was appropriate to call Theon a lord, but she nodded. “I would like to speak to the King. And before that, I would like to write a letter. Could you bring me some paper and a pen?”

Laoren finished her work with Sansa’s hair, took a step back and curtseyed. “As you wish, my queen.”

***

With her guards in tow, Sansa swept through the dark corridors of Dragonstone in search of her husband. A passing servant told her he was in the Chamber of the Painted Table with his Hand.

Davos would be allowing her a few minutes alone with Stannis. Whether he wished it or not.

Sandor was standing outside the door Sansa meant to go through, confirming that Stannis was inside. There was a tired, irritated expression on Sandor’s face, but it softened slightly at her approach. They exchanged nods, but said nothing.

“Your Grace,” Davos said as soon as Sansa entered the room where he and Stannis had been hunched over the painted table and murmuring something in low voices. He had straightened up and was looking at her in mild surprise. “How may we be of service?”

“If it’s not a terrible imposition, I was wondering if I might have a moment with my husband?” She found her courtesies were more clipped than usual this morning. But somehow, she thought Septa Mordane would have approved, even if she could not have shown it. 

Stannis looked away.

“Of course,” Davos said, inclining his head. He left after telling Stannis that he’d be nearby.

Sansa wasn’t quite sure, but it seemed to her that Stannis was a little paler than he usually was.

“What is it?” he asked, not meeting her eyes. He was looking down at the table again.

“I wanted to discuss what happened last night,” Sansa said. She was quite proud of how cool and assured of herself she sounded. There wasn’t a trace of trepidation or fear in her voice.

This got Stannis’ attention. He looked at her, and she saw him swallow before he clenched his jaw tightly.

“I did not appreciate the way you spoke to me.” Sansa walked over to a little table where a flagon of wine stood untouched next to a pitcher of water. Not feeling the need to choose Stannis’ preferred drink under the circumstances, she poured herself a cup of wine. She kept her back to Stannis.

“I did not make an unreasonable request,” Stannis said, “but as I recall, I did not force you to obey. I left.” He did not sound particularly apologetic, but there was discomfort in his tone.

Discomfort was a start.

“You know my past,” Sansa said. She kept her voice deliberately soft. “Do you really consider it reasonable to order me to remove my clothes for you for no particular reason? Is it reasonable for you to speak to me with anger in your voice in our bedchamber?”

“Is it reasonable for you to deny me a precious opportunity to create an heir?” Stannis fired back.

“I do not recall denying you.” Sansa sipped her wine and turned around to face her husband.

“You did not seem pleased when I suggested we try again this morning.” There was bitterness in every line of Stannis’ face.

“I did not understand why it was important. I only sought an explanation.”

Stannis said nothing. He looked at the floor rather than at her, and Sansa could see his jaw working.

She took a steadying breath and touched the place where the letter she had written was hidden on her person. “I have written a letter to my brother, the King in the North,” she said, her voice ringing in the large room.

Stannis’ head snapped up, and he narrowed his eyes at her. “What did you write?”

“I wrote to ask him a few questions,” she said vaguely, walking over to the large table and placing her cup of wine somewhere in the Fingers.

“What questions?” Stannis snapped, a note of worry creeping into his tone.

“I just wondered what would happen if I did not wish to be your queen anymore.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Stannis stared at her with an expression of displeasure, but his eyes were definitely filling with worry.

“Don’t be - don’t be absurd,” he said, walking past her to the pitcher of water and pouring himself a cup.

“I’m not being absurd,” Sansa said, adjusting the temperature of her tone to freezing. “I’m just asking questions.”

“You chose to accept me as your husband of your own free will,” Stannis said. He was holding his cup of water tightly without drinking from it, a deep frown on his lips, and his posture very still.

“And where would you be if I hadn’t?” Sansa asked, keeping her voice quiet, but pointed. She did not take her eyes off Stannis for a moment, even though she could tell he wanted her to look away. There was so much tension in the way he held himself - even more than usual - and his face had reddened a little.

Stannis didn’t answer her question. He drank some of his water instead, looking even more uncomfortable than before.

Sansa picked her cup back up and had a fortifying sip before walking right up to Stannis and touching his cheek. “I am not your plaything or your broodmare,” she said, meeting his eyes and seeing them widen slightly as she spoke. “I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell. I am a Princess of the North and Queen of the Southron Kingdoms. I will rule at your side, and I will be the mother of your children. You will not order me around like a common whore.” She took a breath. “If you treat me well, you will have no cause for complaint.”

She gave his lips a chaste peck at the end of her speech, and was pleased to hear his breath hitch. When she took a step back, she could see that Stannis’ face was bright red. Whether from anger or embarrassment she didn’t know.

She found out soon enough.

“I won’t treat you like a whore as long as you don’t behave like one,” Stannis said, poorly suppressed rage in his voice.

Sansa narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean?”

“Do you think me blind? Do you think I don’t see the way the Hound looks at you? The way _you_ look at _him_? And then there was the matter of how you chose to cling to your half brother in front of all the world when we set sail from Eastwatch. It was highly inappropriate. Don’t deny it.”

Sansa felt as if Stannis had slapped her. Blood rushed to her face as anger and mortification coiled in her stomach. She could not deny that she had had the occasional inappropriate thought about Sandor, and that there were fragments of dreams that she did not let herself think about, but she would never betray her vows as Stannis seemed to be implying. _Never._ And as for Jon… she would never do anything inappropriate with Jon. He was her _brother._

“How dare you?” she whispered.

 _To even suggest it … with Cersei Lannister and her brother in power in King’s Landing …_ Sansa felt her blood run cold. 

“You’re not denying it,” Stannis spat, his teeth bared.

Sansa closed her eyes and wished that she could magically bring Jon to this room. Maybe Stannis would listen to _him._

And in a small, frightened part of herself, she wished for Petyr. 

“There’s nothing to deny,” she said calmly, keeping her eyes closed. If she concentrated, she could pretend she was at Winterfell, safe. “I am faithful to you, my husband. I will always be faithful to you for as long as we are wed.” She opened her eyes and fixed Stannis with a piercing stare.

Stannis was scowling, but he looked a little less incensed. There was no more thunder and lightning in him, it seemed, though the dark stormclouds lingered.

“The Hound wants you,” Stannis grumbled.

“Sandor is a man of honour. Surely he has proved that to you by now.” She thought of the stump of Sandor’s finger, and had to push down her anger. “And you _have_ me,” Sansa added, trying to soften her voice and speak the way Petyr sometimes did. In that silky, persuasive sort of way. “For the time being,” she added, reminding Stannis of the letter she was threatening to send. She took a sip of her wine.

“Your brother can’t unmake our vows,” Stannis said, though there was a hint of uncertainty in his voice.

“Can’t he?” Sansa raised an eyebrow and did her best to exude confidence. _He is a dragonrider. Not you._

Stannis glared at her. “You can’t just threaten to start a war every time you’re displeased.”

“Do not displease me, and that won’t be a problem.”

Stannis let out a sigh of exasperation. 

“You are less than half my age, Sansa,” he bit out, taking a step forward and closing the distance between them again, one of his hands going to her shoulder and gripping her firmly. “You must understand that there are things that I know that you do not. I have experience that you do not have. Sometimes I will ask you to do things that you may not like, but it will be for your own good to listen to me.” His face hardened. “And I am King of Westeros. You must remember your place.”

Sansa forced herself not to flinch at his hand on her shoulder. She raised an eyebrow. “Is it my place to undress so that you may look your fill? Would _that_ have been for my own good?”

Stannis grimaced. “No. That was… that was a mistake. I said I was sorry about that last night.”

“And accusing me of behaving like a whore just now? What was that?”

Pressing his lips together tightly, Stannis seemed to _twitch._ He tightened his grip on her shoulder until it was almost painful. “I will not be cuckolded the way my fool of a brother was, Sansa. I forbid it.”

She wondered if that was supposed to be an apology. It didn’t sound like one. With his hand still on her shoulder, it felt more like a threat. 

She waited for him to continue.

With an irritated sigh, Stannis let her go and walked towards the table. He placed his cup in the stormlands and looked towards the north. “It won’t happen again.”

“What won’t?” Sansa asked coldly. “The rude behaviour in our bed, or the unforgivable name-calling?” Her free hand moved to touch her bodice where her letter was concealed as she spoke.

There was a tense silence.

“Did you really send a raven to Jon?”

“King Jon.”

Stannis scowled at her.

“I never said I sent it,” Sansa said, her voice still cold. “Only that I wrote it.”

At first Stannis looked relieved, but then he narrowed his eyes and scowled even more deeply.

“Are you going to send it?” he asked, his hands balled into fists.

“That depends. Are you going to apologise? Are you going to swear that you will treat me with the respect I deserve?”

Sansa knew that she was pushing Stannis further than ever before, but she had to do it. She had to stand up for herself now, or spend the rest of her marriage to him lying on the ground, letting him tread all over her. _Or worse …_

Stannis was staring at her, disbelief at war with frustration in his eyes.

“You just said my words were unforgivable,” he ground out, crossing his arms mutinously.

Sansa waited. She refused to argue semantics. 

The silence stretched on.

“Fine,” Stannis finally said, the word bursting out in a fit of irritation. “I apologise.” He was breathing quickly. “I swear I will treat you with respect.” His eyes sought hers, and Sansa met his gaze, searching it for sincerity. There was turmoil, anger, and a sullen, tired sort of sadness, but no dishonesty.

She had heard more heartfelt apologies from _Arya_ when they were children, but she could tell that Stannis meant what he said. He would not go back on his word if he could help it.

“Thank you.” She inclined her head.

They stood still for a heartbeat or two, and Sansa could practically _feel_ the tension coming off Stannis in waves. She backed away when it seemed that he would not say or do anything, finished her wine, and set her cup down.

Sansa left the room without another word, her heart beating fast as she closed the door behind her. She nodded to Sandor and the other guards.

 _I did it,_ she thought, her lips curling into a smile.

From the time she had been very young she had been taught that ladies were to obey their lord husbands. Support them, love them, birth their heirs, run their keeps and do everything possible to please them. She had also been taught to have respect for the King. 

Despite learning hard lessons after being forced to take husbands that did not deserve her support or her love, and forced to endure kings that deserved nothing but contempt; standing up to Stannis, her husband _and_ a king, had not been easy.

She hardly knew what to do with herself now that she had made her point. Had it been a mistake to leave the Chamber of the Painted Table so abruptly? Should she have stayed and made certain Stannis had understood her meaning, and that he would have to adjust his behaviour or risk her displeasure and Jon’s wrath?

Sansa started to walk towards her chambers with two stoic guards on her heels. Before she had made it very far, however, the sound of approaching footsteps made her pause. Her guards came to a halt a few steps behind her, their armour clanging about. She really didn’t know why they didn’t just wear boiled leather around Dragonstone. It was not as if they were likely to get attacked while inside the fortress.

“Your Grace?”

Davos had just appeared from around a corner. He was looking at her curiously.

“Lord Seaworth,” Sansa said, nodding at him.

“Are you and King Stannis … finished talking?”

Sansa nodded again.

“Should I be worried? Is something wrong?” Davos still looked curious, but there was concern in his voice, and his brows were knitted together.

“Hopefully there won’t be anything wrong from now on,” Sansa said, her demeanour still rather cool.

Davos frowned. “What did he do?”

Sansa felt a rush of gratitude. She had never been particularly fond of Davos, but she liked that he immediately guessed that Stannis had done something wrong rather than assume the blame lay with her.

“I expect he will tell you if he wishes you to know.”

Davos winced as if her refusal to outright tell him what it was confirmed his worst suspicions. “Did he apologise?”

“Not very well,” Sansa said, her lips twisting into a sardonic smile.

“Well then, as I am his Hand, allow me to say on his behalf, that he begs to be forgiven. Please accept his humblest apology.” Davos sounded sincere, but there was twinkle of amusement in his eyes. Sansa could tell that he was not laughing at her, however. It seemed more as if Davos found the situation comical.

She knew he would not find it amusing if he knew what Stannis had done or if he knew the threat she had just made. But for all Davos knew, Stannis had merely forgotten her nameday.

Sansa decided to accept Davos’ gesture in the spirit that it had been made, and inclined her head.

They parted ways after that, and Sansa returned to her chambers feeling stronger than when she had left them. The rooms were empty, and a fresh breeze was blowing from the north. She went out onto the balcony. 

_I will not be a victim again. Not now. Not ever._


	10. A Fragile Peace

“Where are you off to?” a deep, rough voice asked just as Stannis closed the door behind him. The Chamber of the Painted Table had become stifling, and he felt the need for some air. What he did not feel, was the need to talk to _anyone_ after the conversation he’d just had with Sansa, and especially not Clegane.

“None of your concern,” Stannis bit out, glowering at the hulking figure in front of him.

Clegane glowered right back. “I’m your bloody guard, aren’t I?”

“I’m going for a walk,” Stannis said, grinding his teeth. “I’ll be fine.”

Clegane raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything. He did, however, follow Stannis when he started to trudge down the corridor.

Stannis thought about ordering Clegane to leave him in peace, but the man was keeping a respectful distance, and it was probably not wise to wander around unprotected -- even if that was all Stannis wanted to do.

The castle was poorly lit even though the sun was up, cold, and more familiar than Stannis wanted it to be. His feet carried him through the corridors, guiding him without any conscious effort on his part.

Stannis walked upwards, climbing staircase after staircase, and feeling a smug sense of satisfaction when the Hound started to breathe loudly and mutter curses. Climbing stairs in armour was no easy thing. His own thighs complained about the exercise, but his lungs were used to it.

Stannis didn’t stop moving until he reached the top of the Stone Drum. Outside the wind was cold as ice, and the sound of the ocean reached his ears from all around. Stannis closed his eyes and focused on the way his face started to go numb after a little while. He tried not to let Sansa’s words repeat themselves within his mind. Tried not to feel the discomfort, the regret, and the helpless rage.

“What did you do?” Clegane eventually asked, causing Stannis to remember his presence.

Stannis turned to face Clegane. “You dare question me?” he asked, scowling at the Hound.

“It’s fucking cold,” Clegane said.

“Leave me alone, then.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“I… swore an oath.” Clegane grimaced. “Bloody stupid decision, but there it is.” Sandor lifted his left hand and wriggled his four remaining fingers.

_Sandor is a man of honour. Surely he has proved that to you by now._

Stannis continued to scowl, but gave the man a small nod.

Clegane sighed and rubbed at his face. “Did the little bird give you a piece of her mind? Is that it?”

Stannis bristled at the hint of dark amusement he heard in the Hound’s tone. “ _None of your concern,_ ” he said, probably with a bit more force than necessary. “And I will have you flogged if you refer to the Queen in that disrespectful manner again.”

Clegane crossed his arms and looked down at Stannis, using his height to his advantage, but it did not intimidate Stannis any more than it ever had.

“I don’t know what happened, but you’re a fool if you don’t know what you’ve been given.”

Stannis’ sword hand itched. “You are speaking to your _king._ ”

“And you’re speaking to the dog that will tear your balls off if I find out that you hurt the Queen,” Clegane growled.

His nostrils flaring, Stannis took a threatening step towards Clegane. He would kill him if this conversation continued. “Leave. _Now._ ”

Clegane narrowed his eyes, but after a few beats he gave a mocking nod. “I’ll send someone to take my place, _Your Grace._ ”

Stannis watched as Clegane went back inside, his blood boiling in his veins.

Why had he made the insufferable man a Kingsguard? Why hadn’t he said _no?_

And why was Clegane so concerned with whether Stannis had hurt Sansa? It was clear as day that he hadn’t visited any sort of violence on her. Otherwise she would not be walking around unmarked, writing letters, threatening to start wars, and demanding apologies. The Hound could only mean that he suspected Stannis of taking her against her will, and Stannis would not be accused of such things. He would _not._

Pacing, Stannis thought about Sansa’s reaction to his questions regarding her relationship with the Hound, and the conversation between Clegane and Baelish he had overheard at the Wall. Baelish had said that Clegane loved her. Clegane had not denied it.

But did Sansa feel anything for the Hound in return?

The very thought of it was maddening.

_I will not be played for a fool._

He took a succession of deep breaths in an attempt to calm himself. 

Sansa had said she would be faithful to him. She said that she was _his._ He swallowed as he recalled the suggestive lilt in her voice, heat surging through his veins.

 _She **is** mine,_ he thought, clenching his jaw. _And despite what she may think, there is nothing Jon can do to change that._ Stannis’ stomach twisted and he could not help glancing up at the sky. _Nothing honourable, at least._

Stannis wasn’t sure for how long he stayed there after Clegane left, his molars grinding together until his jaw ached, the freezing wind chilling him to the bone. A silent guard found him at some point, and the man’s presence forced Stannis to do the sensible thing and go back inside. He had a meeting with his Hand to get back to.

***

Four days went by before a raven from Storm’s End arrived. Four very, very quiet days.

Sansa’s husband had yet to return to their chambers to sleep beside her, but he had been very carefully polite at meals. His pleasantries were stiff and stilted, but he clearly knew all the appropriate words and gestures -- even if he did not much like using them. Sansa appreciated the effort, however, and was of course flawlessly courteous in return. They discussed the weather, the challenge of heating Dragonstone, the food they were served, the weather again … everything but what had happened between them. 

She did not truly miss having Stannis near her at night. It had sometimes been pleasant to have him close when they had been at sea, mostly due to the way the weight of his arm around her had helped calm her upset stomach, but now that they were ashore, Sansa slept more easily on her own. Only her nightmares disrupted her sleep, and when she woke up alone, she did not have to spend several moments reminding herself that the man next to her would not hurt her.

This afternoon they were gathered for council, as always, when a messenger came running in, breathless, clutching the missive.

“What does it say, Your Grace?” Theon asked, looking anxiously at Stannis from his seat at the Painted Table.

Sansa pushed her thoughts of her nightmares away, and focused on her husband. He looked displeased with the letter, but no more displeased than he usually looked with every aspect of his life.

“Lady Olenna wishes to meet and discuss the terms of a new alliance. She suggests Storm’s End as a meeting place,” Stannis said.

Sansa tried to make out the seal on the letter. Stannis’ hand was obscuring it for the most part, but it looked green. “Does Lady Olenna Tyrell speak for Ellaria and Varys, or are we only invited to see her?”

“The letter doesn’t say.” Stannis’ displeasure became even more evident on his face. He looked to the point on the map where Storm’s End lay, and his scowl deepened. 

“Should I have the Fury prepared to make sail?” Davos asked.

“It could be a trap,” Petyr said, a few of his fingers resting idly on his mouth. 

“It is likely a trap,” Theon asked, sounding worried. “Should you leave the safety of Dragonstone so soon?”

“If you are concerned about safety, and I think you should be, then I could go on your behalf,” Davos suggested. “If they are our enemies, you will know when I don’t come back.”

“They might send a letter, claiming it’s from you,” Stannis pointed out.

“I doubt they have a sample of my poor handwriting on hand. How would they be able to forge my signature?”

“Lord Seaworth, you are the Hand of the King,” Petyr said. He looked pained. “Surely you have sent a letter to _somebody_ in that capacity. All they would need is one. Child’s play.” He shrugged. “But you could work out a phrase that you would include in a safe letter. A code.”

Sansa cast Petyr a surreptitious glance. He was being surprisingly helpful. But then, it was in his interest to secure Stannis’ hold on the throne...

“No,” Stannis said, scowling at Petyr. “That won’t be necessary.”

Petyr raised an eyebrow and shot her a look that seemed to ask whether her husband was being deliberately stupid.

“I won’t send Davos on my behalf,” Stannis continued. “I will go myself. This meeting is crucial. If the Tyrells and Dorne fight on our side, our chances are much greater. Even if they only remain neutral, that is something. No, I must go to Storm’s End.” His eyes moved to Sandor. “What advice would my Kingsguard give me to ensure my safety?”

Sandor half jumped, and looked around for a moment as if he was sure Stannis was addressing someone else. When they had entered the chamber, Sandor had taken his usual position standing by the door. A guard, not one of the advisors. 

“I’d like to see plans of Storm’s End,” he said. 

“You will have them.” Stannis waved his hand. “I’ll draw them myself. And Lord Davos knows ways to smuggle things into the castle, if that is of assistance. Onions are not so different from men, albeit considerably more useful in my experience. I will have Lord Baelish and Theon Greyjoy accompany me to provide counsel.”

“Me?” Theon asked, clearly nervous at the idea.

“Particularly you,” Stannis said flatly. “You were recently in their company, and you are ostensibly on their side.”

“I - I have sworn fealty to you, my king,” Theon stammered.

“They don’t know that.”

“With all due respect, Your Grace,” Petyr interjected, “they’ll assume Theon will have bent the knee. Making any other assumption would be foolish.” He shot Theon look that was at once dismissive and full of contempt.

Stannis ground his teeth for a moment, and Sansa winced at the increasingly familiar sound. He took a breath, but didn’t snap at Petyr. 

_He can control his temper when the target is someone useful to him,_ Sansa could not help but note. 

Stannis looked away from Petyr to his Hand. “What say you, Davos?” he said. “Do you think you could get into Storm’s End unseen, with a small number of men?”

“I don’t know, Your Grace,” Davos said, looking nonplussed. “It’s true I’ve done it in the past, but I don’t know how the keep is being defended at the moment. I’d have to gather some information first.”

“It would be easier to bribe the men who are already in Storm’s End rather than planting your own,” Petyr said, his tone bored.

“Easier, but not more reliable,” Stannis shot back. “A man that can be bought once can be bought again. I will not trust in such fickle loyalty.”

“You have used sellswords in the past, have you not?” Petyr smirked.

“It didn’t do me much good,” Stannis retorted. “Gather what information you need to gather, Lord Davos,” he then added, not taking his eyes off Petyr. “I would have you infiltrate Storm’s End before I go there.”

“As you wish, Your Grace.”

“I’m sorry, but how is that going to help?” Theon asked, his voice shaking a little. “The army from Dorne that did not go to the Wall numbers in the thousands. The forces from the Reach are vast, too. They were meant to be numerous enough to challenge the Lannisters. How would Lord Davos make a difference?”

“Unless they attack us outright as soon as we set foot in the castle, they’ll probably want to keep up the pretense of being gracious hosts,” Stannis said, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “They’ll invite us into the keep, and they will only have the usual amount of guards stationed unless they wish to arouse our suspicion. If we come under attack, and if their guards are able to defeat our own guards, it will be useful to have a few more men placed inside the castle to come to our aid.”

Sansa found herself sitting back, watching the men make their plans. It was clear enough that she was not intended to take part in this venture. No, she would be left behind, again, to wait on scraps of news. 

“I still think you should bribe the guards. They won’t attack you in the first place if they’re on your side to begin with,” Petyr pointed out.

“I do not have access to all that much gold,” Stannis snapped. “I doubt I could even match what Olenna Tyrell or Ellaria Sand are already paying them.”

“I have gold,” Petyr said. His eyes slid to Sansa. “I would be willing to donate to this cause. After all, I will be with you, and I’d rather stay alive.”

Sansa nodded at him in acknowledgement, keeping her face blank.

“Fine,” Stannis said with an irritated sigh, “I suppose it can’t hurt. But I won’t rely exclusively on the loyalty of bought men.”

“Fair enough.” Petyr inclined his head.

Sansa remained in the Chamber of the Painted Table while the men planned how they would get to Storm’s End and stay alive once they got there, paying close attention and trying to help whenever she could. There was not much she knew that Stannis or Petyr did not, but she did have a few insights into Olenna Tyrell and her habits that they were not aware of, and she shared them willingly.

It was very late by the time the plan had taken shape, and Sansa had already needed to stifle several yawns when they all stood up from the table.

Stannis was the last to stand up as he had been sealing the letter they had composed in response to Olenna’s. Sansa had managed to persuade Stannis to include several courtesies in the letter, even though he had complained that most of them were lies. (“Necessary lies, Your Grace.”) Aside from the necessary lies, it said that they would sail to Storm’s End in a week’s time. Davos had estimated that he would need a few days to gather the information he needed, and a few more days to infiltrate the castle. Petyr needed time to make his own arrangements. Hopefully a week would be enough time; a longer delay would cause suspicion.

“Have this sent to Storm’s End,” Stannis said to Theon, handing him the letter.

Theon bowed and accepted the sealed document. He left without saying a word, presumably to do as Stannis asked.

Petyr watched Theon leave and turned to Sansa and Stannis once he was gone. “I think I will retire to my chambers,” he said, “I have a few letters of my own to write. Gold to procure, guards to bribe. You know how it is.” He bowed to them both with a smirk, and left the same way Theon had.

“Odious man,” Stannis muttered.

“Mm,” Davos hummed in agreement. “I should go, too,” he then said. “I have to sail to the mainland to make contact with a few people who will have the information I need. Unfortunately I cannot write them letters. Most of them can’t read.”

Stannis gave a curt nod. “Don’t take too long.”

Davos grinned wryly. “I’ll do my best. I do look forward to returning to the stormlands. Among other things, it has been a long time since I’ve seen my wife. ” He gave Stannis a look, and Sansa could have sworn he winked before quietly exiting. 

There was an awkward silence once Stannis and Sansa were alone.

“I -” Stannis began, clearing his throat. 

Sansa gave him her attention, and wondered what he was about to say.

He lapsed into silence rather than continue.

“Your Grace?” she said, her curiosity piqued.

“It’s Stannis,” he muttered, giving her an unreadable look.

She kept looking at him expectantly, hoping that he would get the words out. Her heart sped up as she waited for him to speak.

“I want you to stay here when I go to Storm’s End,” he finally said, straightening his back and clenching his jaw. “Your safety is paramount.”

Sansa was not surprised. She supposed she should be flattered, but she didn’t feel it. 

“If things do not go to plan I want you to sail back north and go to Winterfell. You will be safe there.”

She didn’t know how to respond. Should she feel pleased that he wished to protect her? Insulted that she was to be left behind on Dragonstone while everyone else went to the stormlands?

“What of the army?” Sansa asked at length, trying to focus on practical matters.

“Yara, Tyrion, and the swords they command should arrive soon. Most will sail with me to Storm’s End, but a good number will remain here, under your command.” Stannis paused, and it seemed to Sansa that he was struggling with himself. “Clegane will go with me.”

Sansa stiffened. Was he still suspicious of her? Had his apology meant nothing?

“I understand,” she said, speaking coolly. “But I think my cousin’s men from the Vale should stay with me. I will keep some northern lords to advise me, too. With your permission,” she added.

Stannis was almost vibrating with tension. “I will consider it,” he said, his voice hoarse.

For a moment, Sansa thought he was about to touch her, but his hand went to his own face rather than towards her. He scratched his close-cropped beard and dropped his hand, looking as if he were at a bit of a loss. But it only lasted for a fleeting moment.

Stannis straightened and raised his chin. “I’ll see you in the morning. Good night, Sansa.”

He left without waiting for a response.

Sansa listened to the sound of Stannis’ guards clanging in his wake, and didn’t emerge to find her own guards until silence had returned.

Her stomach felt tight as she walked to her chambers, and she furrowed her brow as her husband’s words repeated themselves in her head.

Did Stannis’ wish to leave her behind and for her to seek safety in Winterfell if worst came to worst mean anything? Did his desire to separate her from his perceived rival for her attention mean that he was jealous? Did he… care about her? Or was he just being controlling? 

Did she _want_ him to care about her?

Laoren had to ask three times whether Sansa wanted a silk nightgown to sleep in, and Sansa was still distracted by the time she was in bed.

_Will I ever have peace?_

***

_Dear Bran;_

_Thank you for our time together at Winterfell. I have thought much on what you’ve said and you are right. Sansa’s path lays in the south, and I must look to the north. My duty lies there. I cannot fight Sansa’s battles for her, no matter how much I want to._

_I will stop getting drunk and writing letters. I promise._

_I’ve seen off Tyrion, on dragonback, and Yara, by ship. They both seemed very keen to join the wars of the south. I cannot blame either of them. If the Boltons were still holding Winterfell, I’d look to burn them out. I wish them good fortune._

_You’ve said to speak my fears to you, not to others, and that is wise. Can I say that I have a bad feeling about one person in King Stannis’s new court? You know whom I mean. I have no proof, but I dislike that man, and I want him as far away from our sister as possible. Essos would be good. The southern continent would be better. And out of the lands of the living would be best of all. I do not like this._

_Jon._

***

_My Beautiful Queen;_

_I believe we do indeed have common enemies. My brother’s daughter absconded with most of the Iron Fleet, but it is of no consequence. I am building more ships. Soon my fleet will surpass hers in every way._

_I find myself eager to discover how grateful you will be once I deliver the heads of your enemies to you._

_Your devoted servant,_  
_Euron Greyjoy, Lord of the Iron Islands_

***

_Jon;_

_I am making ready to depart for Dragonstone. A letter from Stannis Baratheon has not arrived here. I have not read it. It is not full of complete horseshit about going to Storm’s End and neglecting to deal with my whore of a sister in King’s Landing._

_Given that I have no idea of my king’s wishes, my dragon and I must make our own plans._

_Tyrion._

__

***

_Dear Olyvar;_

_Could I trouble you to order me some new socks from Mistress Waters? You know the kind I like. The north makes very nice wool, but I haven’t been able to find anything that fits as well as my usual socks. Let me know when you have them and I’ll make arrangements to have them smuggled to me._

_I’d be ever so grateful,_  
_Petyr._


	11. Petyr Baelish’s Day Off

Sandor had known this Storm’s End Adventure was going to go wrong, but he hadn’t known just how until he was shaken awake in the pre-dawn hours of their morning of departure. 

“Ser Clegane! Ser Clegane!” Blaer, Sandors ‘squire’, sounded excited. The boy was a young wildling who had attached himself to Sandor at the Wall, with Tormund’s encouragement. He was possibly a girl. Sandor was not sure and had no intention of asking.

“Not a ‘ser’” he mumbled, his eye still closed. “A ser is a knight. I’m no knight.” _Not that Blaer would understand the distinction._ He opened one eye, reluctantly. It was very warm and comfortable in these furs. “What the fuck do you want?”

“I don’t want to wake you, Sandor,” said Blaer. “But I heard in the kitchen that Littlefinger took terrible ill in the night. All sudden like. Too sick to travel, they are saying. I thought you would want to know.”

 _FUCKING BASTARD._ And Sandor found himself vertical. Naked as the day he was born. 

Damn, he hoped Blaer wasn’t a girl. 

“Get me my clothes,” he growled.

***

There was a small crowd gathered at the door of Baelish’s chambers by the time Sandor arrived. The door was open, providing the crowd with a view of a man huddled up in a sizable bed, furs covering most of his body from sight. He trembled violently every now and then, and sometimes he made retching noises. There was a smell of vomit. No one seemed keen to cross the threshold to take a proper look at him.

 _Isn’t that convenient?_ Sandor thought to himself. 

The king and the little bird were both there, standing well apart and with Theon in the middle. Sansa’s little northern maid looked like she was a mouse caught in a gale. The captain of the Fury and various servants stood well back. 

“Sick!” Sandor said. “I’ll show him sick if he wants to be sick.” He moved towards the door.

Suddenly Sansa was in his way. Her face was pale. She held up her hand. 

“We don’t know anything yet,” she said. “We haven’t a maester, but there is a cook on one of the ships with some skill. He is on his way. Sandor,” she bit her lip, and there was a desperate look in her eyes that put more fear into him than anything since he had faced the walking dead, “... please.”

 _Little bird, surely you don’t believe this?_ But looking at Sansa’s eyes, at the way she bit her lip, Sandor feared this was about more than this morning. _She’s still more under Littlefinger’s sway than she knows._ There would be no help from her. 

He looked to the King. Surely he wasn’t taken in by this mummer’s farce? 

“He has a fever, his manservant said, and spots, too,” Theon said. “The servant just took to his own bed with a fever. And an old woman who does his washing, too.” His face was pale. 

Sandor closed his eyes and counted to ten. Shit heap probably poisoned the poor fools.

The captain of the Fury stepped forward. “I don’t want him on my ship.”

Littlefinger let out a moan, ostentatiously wiped sweat from his brow, and clutched his stomach dramatically. 

Sandor gave Stannis an outraged look. 

“Sickness can spread like wildfire on a ship,” the King looked at Baelish skeptically, but his tone was firm. “No sailor would bring a man with a fever on board if there was a choice. And we must get to Storm’s End with all possible speed. When we are secure there, Lord Baelish can follow us.”

_Oh hell no._

“You would leave him behind?” Sandor asked, adding a silent _Your Idiotic Grace_ in his head while trying to mind his tone. _With the Queen?_

Stannis gave him a sharp look that told Sandor he had been unsuccessful when it came to minding his tone. He didn’t really care. 

“I would refrain from risking the lives of our men-at-arms and sailors for the sake of a single master of law.”

“You’d not be risking a fucking thing,” Sandor said, wishing - not for the first time - that he could just smack some sense into the fools he was constantly surrounded by. He allowed himself a brief fantasy of it, but shook it off when he noticed Sansa shooting him a disapproving look.

Stannis looked at the moaning lump inside the bedchamber with a disgusted expression. “Be that as it may, I can’t afford to take the chance.” He scowled. Clearly he was skeptical too, but the decision was made.

Sandor looked at the nearest wall and considered bashing his head against it a few times. It would probably be more entertaining and less painful than this conversation.

“Sansa,” Stannis said, turning to the Queen, “do not enter his room, but make sure he is given the care he needs. I don’t have time for this. Send word to Storm’s End if he manages to die.” 

Sandor did not miss the way the King’s eyes nearly rolled all the way into the back of his skull as he gave the order.

Stannis looked at Sandor and Davos. “The rest of us must make ready for departure. The tide will not wait.”

Sandor took one last look into Baelish’s chamber. The man was pale and sweaty, his head thrown back. But one eye was open a slit. In the darkness, it almost seemed to shine. 

_Fucking hell._

Sandor curled his hands into fists, the stump that had once been his little finger throbbing. He wanted to walk into the bedchamber and give the slimy snake something to moan about. But Sansa was looking at him again, her eyes big and sad, and Stannis was walking away.

He growled out a frustrated noise and forced himself to follow the King.

The urge to punch something did not leave him. But he did his sworn duty and protected the man who was about to leave Littlefinger alone on an island with Sansa.

_Sacred fucking oath._

_But you didn’t tell him._ A little voice that sounded like Arya Stark rang in Sandor’s mind. He could almost see the girl’s accusing eyes. _How can you blame him when you didn’t tell him the truth?_

Sandor tried to push that image away. _Feral little beast of a child. What did she know?_

Soon they were outside, and Sandor could see the ship he would have to board. His stomach lurched at the thought. Sandor would always prefer a fine horse and a good road. He watched as Stannis barked commands and pointed at barrels that hadn’t been carried aboard yet. A few sailors ran to do his bidding.

Sansa appeared after a little while, pale and worried, but hiding it fairly well. She went to stand beside Stannis.

Sandor stood guard in silence, keeping a weather eye open, and paying close attention to any man that approached them. There was a lot of hustle and bustle; ideal conditions for anyone who wished to harm the royal couple to do so and get away with it. 

Not on his watch.

The King stood rigid at Sansa’s side, looking - as always - as if someone had shoved a broomstick up his bunghole. Sandor hadn’t paid it much mind outside Littlefinger’s bedchamber, but the little bird was dressed in her finery to bid her husband farewell. She was not as finely dressed as she had been for her wedding, but she wore a pretty sort of purple gown, with golden embroidery. It looked soft and warm. So did she.

 _Too fine and too soft for the likes of you, dog,_ he told himself. _And much too fucking precious to be left alone with Littlefinger._ His short nails were digging painfully into his palms. He turned his gaze towards the sea for a moment, and took a deep breath. It was not too windy, and the waves weren’t that choppy. A good day to set sail. Possibly he would not lose his breakfast after ten minutes aboard.

“Are you certain you do not wish to wait until Petyr recovers? Or at least until Tyrion arrives?” Sansa’s voice floated over to Sandor on the breeze.

“I’d sooner make use of the good weather,” Stannis replied. “Tyrion will follow when he comes. My orders to him were clear.” His face was set in a frown.

At the Wall, a few knights had wagered that Stannis would frown less after the wedding. The idiots hadn’t known the first thing about Stannis, or they never would have made such stupid bets. Stannis would never stop frowning. Even if he was given the most beautiful, most kind, most _special_ lady in the Seven Kingdoms. If Sandor had cared to, he could have won himself a nice stack of silver. Instead he had blackened a few eyes.

Yes, Sandor understood that Stannis would never stop frowning. And he also understood that Tyrion Lannister would do as he thought best, orders or no orders.

But no one was asking for his opinion, so he kept silent.

Sansa lifted her hand from the King’s arm to his cheek. “I wish you a good journey, Stannis,” she said, her voice sweet. Sandor knew he should look away, but he watched as she gifted her surly, ungrateful cock of a husband with a kiss. “Farewell.”

Stannis tensed up and said something that Sandor didn’t hear. Sansa didn’t give much of a reaction to his words, whatever they had been, but her eyes lingered on the King’s form as he strode over to the Fury’s captain.

Sandor made to follow Stannis, but Sansa halted his progress.

“Good luck,” she said, her voice low. Her expression was serious, but there was something soft in her eyes. It was a softness that had always used to be in them, back before the Royal Cunt Bastard had ordered her father executed. After that he had only glimpsed it but rarely. “Keep safe.”

Sandor couldn’t come up with anything to say. He wanted to warn her not to listen to Littlefinger, but his tongue seemed too fat for his mouth somehow. He just swallowed and nodded, and reminded himself that he was on duty. He had a king to protect. _Sacred fucking oath._

Sansa smiled, but her eyes were sad. “I wish I was going with you. I’m tired of being left behind,” she said. “Try to protect my husband from danger. And from himself, too, if you can.”

Sandor found his voice. “I’ve been thinking. We should tell him about Littlefinger --”

Her face went hard, and she stepped back. “What?”

“It is the man’s life in danger. And he’s the king. If I talked to him …”

“What would he do then? To you? To me?” Sansa shook her head, hard, resolute. “He already doesn’t trust me -- you don’t know the things he has said ... No. No, you must not. Keep him safe. I can deal with Littlefinger.” 

Sandor opened his mouth to argue, question, demand to know what Stannis had said to her. But Sansa turned on her heel and walked away from him. And then there was the call to board the ship. 

Much too soon, Sandor followed Stannis into a little boat that took them to the Fury.

Stannis didn’t say a word to Sandor until they were standing on the deck of the enormous war galley. The King waited until the captain was out of earshot, and the sailors too busy to pay the two of them any mind. “What did she say to you?” he then asked, his voice cold and hard.

“Wished me luck,” Sandor said, not bothering to play the fool. They both knew Stannis was talking about Sansa. “Safe journey.”

Stannis glared up at him, suspicion in his eyes. “Nothing else?”

Sandor honestly didn’t know whether to be angry or whether to pity the man. “No, Your Grace.” _You’re wasting your suspicion on me, damn you. You should be worrying about the evil cunt you’re leaving behind. With your wife._

The King held his gaze for a moment before nodding once. After that he seemed to decide that Sandor no longer existed. He went about his business without sparing him a word or a second glance, safe in the knowledge that Sandor would protect him if anyone decided they’d had enough of his shit, and attempted to beat his face in.

Sandor frowned and gripped the hilt of his sword. _I can’t protect him properly if he continues to make poor choices like allowing Littlefinger a free rein._

But there was nothing Sandor could do about it now.

_Hopefully the little bird knows what she’s doing._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few things-
> 
> 1) The chapter title is a play on the title of the film: _Ferris Bueller's Day Off_
> 
> 2) Blaer (or Blær) is an Icelandic name which can work either for a boy or a girl. It means "a breath of wind" or "a tone of colour". The 'ae' (æ) is pronounced like you would say the word "aye". And of course you roll the 'r'.
> 
> 3) Blue and Sarah have this fic organised into four sections. This chapter marks the end of the first section. We have a fair draft of the rest of the fic, but we need to do a very great deal of work on it before it's ready to post. Therefore, since the show is airing right now and Sarah is going on vacation next Friday/Saturday, we're going to have to go on a short hiatus. We promise the next section will be worth the wait!


End file.
